The Agonizing Shame
by ShhUrDead678
Summary: Dean and John go on a hunt, and Sam is left to fend for himself when the curious motel manager notices he's without company. He manages to escape, but not without lasting side effects. Abused!Limp!Sam Age15/16. Dark. Contains abuse, non-con
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all, I'm back! So I wrote this story for a dear friend of mine (doyleshuny!) and I hope you all enjoy! Some of this is already written, so there should be no more than three or four days per update. It's extremely dark, and significantly more disturbing than I had anticipated, so just be sure this is your cup of tea before beginning.**

**WARNINGS: very dark, containing sexual assault, abuse, and potential neglect.**

**Enjoy!**

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Dean stuffed the last bit of the duffel bags and necessary weaponry into the back of the Impala, nearly bouncing with enthusiasm as he prepared for the next hunt. The hunt he was actually allowed to _go_ on.

He turned guiltily at the thought, looking at Sam's purposefully blank expression as he watched from the motel door. It wasn't the kid's fault Dean hadn't been able to go on their previous hunt, but still he couldn't help but hold a grudge for it. Sam was sixteen, and Dad specifically said he was in the age group the spirit had been precisely interested in, tying them up in an abandoned warehouse before slowly slicing at their flesh, cutting it into bits before hunting down its next victim. It wasn't Sam's fault a spirit was out for maniacal vengeance on teenagers, but nonetheless there Dean was, staying with Sam as protection while John hunted alone and unguarded.

Dean remembered it being so _hard. _Waiting for their father to get back, never knowing if he was okay. He could barely contain himself half the time and bugged Sam endlessly as the kid tried to do his homework.

Dean sighed uncertainly. This hunt was even more dangerous than the last. John would, _thankfully_, be using Dean as backup while Sam stayed in the motel room, where it was safest. This way Dean wouldn't have to worry so much about their father and Sammy wouldn't have to deal with a malignant, lethal demon in the near future.

Dean closed the trunk with reverent ease as he told himself he was doing the right thing. Sam would be safe; he had to be. Dean headed back to the motel door as Sam wordlessly sidestepped, allowing Dean entry to the nearly claustrophic room. Dean grabbed his jacket off the mangy bed, a huge, uncomfortable lump he was _not_ going to be missing. He winced, hoping Sam would be able to sleep while they were gone.

John honked loudly from the driver's seat, and Dean went and clapped Sam on the shoulder, pasting on a grin. Sam offered a small smile in return, the white teeth contrasting with the tan skin, and Dean's own became a little more genuine.

Dean released his hopefully reassuring hand, instead shrugging on his jacket as he looked back at the Impala through the door. John made a beckoning gesture and Dean nodded, holding up a finger.

_If only the man were more patient._

He turned back to Sam. "Alright, kid, remember what we've talked about. Straight to school then straight back, no extra stops. When you get home make sure you remember to check the salt lines. Don't open the door for strangers. Dad and I shouldn't be gone for more than a few days but there's enough food here to feed you for a week. We don't have any extra cash to leave you but that should hold you off." Dean scratched at his head, licking his lips before hesitantly adding. "And, please, don't do anything stupid," he said, hoping he didn't sound too much like a mother hen, obsessing over its young.

Thankfully, Sam seemed to take it for what it was and nodded, his long hair falling out of his eyes. "Don't eat everything in one day. Don't get distracted when out of the safety of the house. Dominate in the art of isolation. Obtain an obsession with salt. Don't drown myself in the tub. I think I got it."

A slow grin spread across Dean's face and he rolled his eyes. Damn that kid for being adorable.

Gratefully, the worry that seemed to gnaw at his entire being wasn't quite so potent now. As long as Sam knew how to protect himself, he should be okay.

And the "should" was what worried him.

He slapped Sam once more on the shoulder then ruffled his hair as goodbye before finally departing reluctantly from the decrepit building, striding over and hopping into the passenger seat.

Not a moment later Dean was watching Sam from the side mirror, the kid standing silently with his hands deep in his too-big jeans pockets and John driving them out of the parking lot, the sleek Impala speeding out of sight.

Sam offered a small wave.

Sam watched dully as the Impala drove out of sight, leaving him alone with only his thoughts as crude company. Why wasn't he allowed to contribute to the Winchester hunting squad? Sure, he's made a few mistakes in the past but doesn't everyone? Maybe if he'd worked harder, trained more, studied _less_, he'd be allowed to be there for his family, make sure they didn't get hurt.

Hurt by _the _demon.

He turned on his heel and headed toward his room, head down. A mere step forward and he stopped abruptly, head turned up and eyes squinting as they did a once-over of his less-than-desirable surroundings. Why did it suddenly feel so…off? Like there was something lurking in the shadows that couldn't be seen or heard unless looked at directly. Like some indefinable _something_ was just _not right_.

Like he was being watched?

He shrugged it off, sure it was the mere feeling of isolation that was tugging at his heart.

He went inside the small room, retrieving his latest novel, _The Kite Runner_, before plopping onto the bed, the springs dancing up and down before gratefully quieting.

It was going to be a long few days.

Seven hours later—three of those hours consisting of an unintentional catnap-and he couldn't ignore the rumbling hunger pangs coursing through his stomach any longer. Sitting up, he groaned, stretching his body to its full length before setting the beaten bookaside gingerly, thoughts of Hassan's assault and Amir's cowardice still lingering. The binding was frayed and torn, and even the slightest mishandling could easily bring it to its grave.

Sam got up, glancing at the clock that read 12:28p.m. in bold letters, the 8 cut in half and flickering, just waiting for a seizure to happen. He walked to one built-in corner of the room, what the three Winchesters all called the kitchen, though it was _hardly_ big enough to be deemed as such.

He opened up the little fridge, thankful it actually worked properly, and scooped out his box of leftovers from the diner they had eaten at a few days back.

He popped it into the adjacent microwave, hitting a few buttons before pressing "start". He stood there, staring at the contraption as his food stayed in place. He pushed "start" again, harder this time, but again his hopefully edible lunch refused to cook. He looked around the back of the microwave, his eyebrow lifting as he admired the nice, jagged cut that went through the width of the wire. The golden, metal parts at the end of the plug were wayward and bent, obviously in no state to be safely plugged into walls without getting a few detrimental stings in the process.

He inwardly shrugged, understanding it as one of the many obstacles he always seemed to be forced to work around.

Not for the first or last time, he thought about his family. They had done all the necessary researching in the motel, discussing and mulling over the information for over a week before finally concluding what Sam had so wished it weren't. Because it was _the_ demon, the demon that had killed his mother all those years ago. She had protected him, saved his miserable, unworthy life, and all he could do in return was sit around in a rundown motel as his father and brother avenged her.

His mouth felt twisted in a permanent frown, and he attempted a grin, his lips curling up in a parody of a smile. He stopped trying when it started to hurt.

He took the cold container out of the microwave and tossed it onto the bed. He followed a moment later, flopping beside it as he searched for the grayed television remote, intent on just sitting on his ass all day.

A pair of footsteps within earshot echoed in the hallway outside his small room, only momentarily interrupting his thoughts as he grabbed for the remote. Sam, for the most part, thought nothing of it.

Until they stopped outside his door.

Sam's breath caught in his throat and it suddenly felt like his heart just _stopped. _He stared wide-eyed at the door in astonishment, the surreptitious person continuing to stand there, unwavering. Slowly, so slowly, he brought his hand around to his back, pulling out the gun he always kept at the waistband of his jeans.

The metal felt reassuring in his hand as he kept it aimed at the door. Several long, agonizing moments later and the obscure person departed no sooner than they'd arrived, the footsteps fading outside until they were no more.

Sam heaved a sigh of relief, his head drooping as his neck failed to hold it up properly.

Deciding against watching TV or dealing with any loud electronics—_just to be on the safe side_, he told himself—he instead busied himself with his Physics homework, popping the book open to the correct page before beginning his weekend assignment.

As damn hard as he tried to focus on the Doppler effect and the rarefaction and compression of sound waves, his mind couldn't help but keep going back to those mysterious footsteps. Whoever it was hadn't just stopped in the middle of the hall; no, they had shifted specifically in his direction, almost like they were breathing down his neck, intimate and suffocating.

What purpose would someone have to come to_ his _room? He had no acquaintances here, and Dean and his father were in a whole other state.

He sighed heavily, his eyes straying from his book to look back at the door, untouched and ever-present. Who was he kidding? It was probably nothing, maybe a lost occupant that was looking for his own room. It had to be.

What other explanation was there?

The eldest Winchester parked in front of the prominent, high scale hotel, the building spotless of the contamination they were so used to in their own rooms.

Stepping out, Dean followed behind him, doing a customary glance at their surroundings before following John toward the luxuriant hotel. A man dressed in matching blue, ironed clothes and a silly hat stood at the entrance to the double doors, chin up, back straight as a rod, and hands folded reverently in front of him. Dean shot John a questioning glance, John returning it with one of his own.

Upon reaching the double doors the man immediately turned and opened a single door for them, gesturing a hand inside and bowing slightly.

"Greetings, gentlemen, I hope you enjoy your stay here at the Fallafay Plaza."

John nodded awkwardly to him, saying a gruff, unsure "thanks" before retreating swiftly into the hotel, Dean following close behind.

Once they were out of hearing range, Dean whispered, "Dude, what was up with _that_? Like we're freakin' saints or something."

They each took a quick, tactful glance behind them, watching the man do the same thing for a brunette woman with a hand-held suitcase.

John turned back to Dean, shrugging. "I guess he does that for everybody."

"Weird."

And the men took off walking briskly to the second floor.

Once it hit eight o'clock, Sam began rummaging through the wooden cupboards for a potential meal once more, one hand rubbing absently at his empty stomach.

After having completed his Physics, Calculus, and American History homework, he took a quick shower before finishing up _The Kite Runner_, glad to have read the protagonist Amir had finally achieved redemption despite the poor decisions throughout his life. He absently wondered if his family was a bit like that. They hunted for a living, killing and slaughtering with little consideration of the beings' possible virtue, but maybe they'll turn out okay after all. Their intentions were good, weren't they? Protecting the innocent from harm was the main priority.

And another nap later and here he was, starving and in need of nourishment.

Careful not to touch the surrounding, rotting wood in front of him, he got out a box of Cheerios,—breakfast for dinner, who knew?—salvaging a bowl and spoon in various drawers before pouring a meager helping of milk, not nearly enough for his liking. But the carton was already half-empty, and he didn't want to worry about going to the store to get more if it wasn't absolutely essential. They didn't have the money for it. _Straight to school then straight back, no extra stops. _

He really appreciated Dean's effort in protecting him, but damn if he wasn't obsessed with it.

Just as Sam was heading back to eat on the bed, the only furniture there was to actually sit on, maybe find another book to read while he was at it, a light knocking resonated through the room, and Sam nearly lost his entire bowl to the hard floor in his surprise. He threw his bowl down onto the small desk between the two beds, feeling redundant as he brought his left hand back to reach for the gun snugly placed at the small of his back. Slipping it out, he aimed it toward the door, his heart racing as sweat beaded down his forehead. A drop fell annoyingly into his eye, and he hastily swiped it away, his sole attention on the door.

Giving the unknown visitor no response, another knock came down onto the door, slightly heavily than the last. "Hello der, I'm Larry Foreman, the owner of dis here place. Honestly, I could swear on my momma's grave you're in der, boy. Just wanted ta greet the new guest, is all. It's jus a customary thing I like to do. Keep my customers comin' back, you see." If the door were removed from the equation, Sam had no doubt he'd see a large smile and convincing wink on the other side, trying his best to play the part of deception.

Or what he strongly assumed was deception.

Sam backed up a step from the door, not sure why but hoping it helped him in the long run. What was he supposed to do? The gruff-sounding man hadn't given him any plausible reason to open fire, so what did that leave Sam to do? Allow the man entrance and join him in a cup of tea?

"Come on now, boy, don't be stubborn. I ain't gonna do nothin' to ya," the masculine voice called again from behind the door.

Sam shut his eyes firmly, hard enough to see imaginary spots roaming across his eyelids. He rubbed a hand across them roughly. Neither Dean nor his father had ever taught him how to deal with something like this.

He heard the man sigh. "Ya know what, boy? It's aight, I'll just come back tomorrow, get ya more acquainted wit da place. Goo' night, boy, until next time."

He continued to listen intently as the heavy footsteps retreated and he could have sworn he heard a deep chuckling as the man faded out of hearing. He physically sagged, the tension and adrenaline flowing out of him in a rush as he slumped weightlessly to the nearest bed, his head pounding. He rubbed at it with slender fingers, massaging his forehead tenderly in hopes of lessening the oncoming headache.

After another pointless moment of rest, _because nothing_ happened, Sam rationalized with himself, he pulled his cell out of his pocket. He flipped it open then speed-dialed Dean, forcing his mind to relax.

_He'll know what to do._

Dean and John stood as casually as circumstances allowed in the ornate hallway that contained intricately carved vases and pleasant, beige wallpaper along the walls. It all felt weird, being in such an extravagant environment, and Dean felt painfully out of place. But Dean didn't fail to realize these weren't any normal conditions they were under either. The demon only went after six month old children, his true motive unknown, and, due to endless research and countless discussion, this would be where it went down.

In a damn hotel.

They leaned against the wall, scuffling at their feet nonchalantly and hoping like hell no one came their way within the next hour. They were both armed, hopefully discreetly, and waited patiently outside the door for the signs of the demon's arrival.

Dean wiped at the perspiration gradually accumulating on his forehead, trying to convince himself everything would be _fine_. The demon didn't know they were coming, so they'd gank the unsuspecting bastard then get back to Sam.

His heart ached at the thought of Sam. He really wished the kid had been able to join them in the hunt, he did, but he also recognized the possibilities of injury for that kid. They were substantially more than anyone he'd ever known.

Dean nodded resolutely. It was for the best. Sam would be plenty safe in the motel while they were gone.

But Dean still couldn't help but smile reflectively, and John glanced questioningly at his son. Dean met his gaze with a smile before turning back to the door. "I was just thinking about Sammy. The damn kid is like a magnet, attracting every psycho and spirit within a twenty mile radius."

John chuckled in agreement, the anxiety and rigidity they both felt fading slightly as they thought of the youngest of the family.

The light above them flickered, and whatever John had considered adding to the conversation came to a halt. Both men immediately pushed off the wall, blessed knives instantly at the ready.

John kicked down the door with alarming speed, entering the room with Dean trailing readily behind him not a moment later. They each took in the new surroundings swiftly: light blue wallpaper, bed against the wall on the left, dresser adjacent to that, floor lamp adjacent to that, woman with baby adjacent to that, demon closing in.

A middle-aged woman, probably the mother, spun her head from the ever-present demon to the two hunters, her hazel eyes overcome with fright as she slowly backed into a corner, her baby held protectively in her arms.

The demon looked behind him to meet John and Dean's hateful gazes, his smile wicked and eyes flashing yellow.

"Well well, look who took advantage of their options for sightseeing. Winchester and Winchester and…," the demon tilted his head in mock astonishment, "no Winchester?" He shook his head, the smile still plastered onto the human face. "I'm surprised you didn't bring little Sammy along for the ride. I mean, seeing how it _was_ his fault poor mommy died."

"Shut up, you bastard, Sam didn't do anything! The only thing at fault is _you," _Dean sneered, his knife being replaced with a flask of holy water. He flung it in the demon's direction, and it hissed intrinsically.

"Ouch, Deano, that stung," he said rubbing his arm jeeringly.

Dean growled, his hand reaching for a gun. Then the hand stopped without his permission, his fingers just grazing his belt loop as they wavered in midair, as if stuck in super glue and no longer serviceable to the owner. He tugged, his eyes shutting in fierce concentration, but then he felt his hand lift, lift in the direction he did _not _tell it to go.

A second later and both men were pinned to the wall, a foot above the ground, their limbs taut and unmoving. Dean worked and pulled every fiber of his being to push out of the restraint.

The demon strode up coolly to them, watching humorously as the two struggled against invisible, indestructible forces of his creation.

"All right, boys, enough is enough. You're not getting out of those so no need to continue such a fruitless attempt_."_

"_Go to hell y-_" And Dean's words were suddenly cut off, trapped in his suddenly malfunctioning mouth. Dean moved his mouth experimentally, but no words came out like they were supposed to.

The demon laughed. "Been there, done that. Not that exciting, I assure you." He rubbed his hands together pensively, looking at each with something akin to genuine interest. He made a low humming sound before speaking, "What a curious thing, not bringing Sam Winchester. Was there a particular," he waved his hand around for the word, "_reason_ behind that decision, or merely an overprotective mental aspect on Dean's part?"

Dean's eyes went to small slits, and the demon's smile reappeared, one hand going and squeezing Dean's cheek mockingly. "Ah, aren't you a cute little domineering thing?"

Dean hissed, his mouth _wanting _to gather enough saliva to spit on the bastard's face but, once again, the attempt was useless, his mouth inactive and unresponsive to his demands.

"Now that was just rude, Dean." He waved his arms widely around the hotel room. "And here I was thinking we were having a blast." He shook his head thoughtfully, placing his arms over his chest in mock consideration. "Maybe we should get some balloons, make this experience a little more exciting. You know, spice it up a bit?"

The demon's expression grew suddenly distant, his face drawn up and gaze toward the ground in thought, as if listening in on a conversation several states over.

He looked up to Dean abruptly, his mouth flashing a bright grin. His human body walked the few steps to stand directly before Dean, his gaze falling on the young man's jacket. He flipped one side over, jiggling it around a bit, searching for something. Dean watched helplessly as the demon eventually fished his cell out of his right pocket.

He looked to Dean. "This is your phone, yes?"

It was evidently a rhetorical question, Dean's mouth sewn tightly shut.

The demon flipped the phone open, admiring it curiously. "What an odd device." He squinted. "And the screen is so _small._" He shook his head regretfully. "By Satan himself, you humans really are a worthless species."

Dean managed a grunt in response. The demon ignored him, finding the "on" button and pressing it. A few seconds later he was pressing another button then putting the phone to his ear, his eyes glancing at Dean's seemingly inner turmoil with a smile. He listened intently for several moments and, after whatever his task was had been accomplished, he flipped it shut purposefully, shaking it lightly in front of Dean before putting it back in his own pocket. "Sorry, Deano, I gotta hang on to this for a little while longer. Don't worry, I'll let you have it back later," he said with a wink.

The demon turned his wrist over, acting like he needed the gold Rolex to know what time it was. "Alright, well we had a nice chat, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to wrap things up from here. It was _such_ a pleasure seeing you two again." He smirked.

The demon seemed to read the mens' minds, hell, maybe he _did_, and answered the unspoken question. "Ah, now why would you think _that?_ I'm not going to _kill_ you." He laughed, a glimmer of malice in his tone. "That would be just cruel."

With that, he snapped his fingers, and the world darkened to black.

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**Well, success? Don't forget to read & review if you have time, throw in an opinion or two. I'd very much appreciate it.  
With more reviews I must just update sooner. ;) **

**Hope you enjoyed.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Alright, here's the next update! Hope you all enjoy and please feel free to leave a small review. Anything and everything is acceptable well appreciated!**

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Sam strode through the halls, bulletin boards announcing Chess Club meetings and Scholar Bowl and numerous other available sports and activities as enticing advertisement. He looked at it longingly, but continued walking as several other kids crowded around the board, signing up again and again. Such a luxury wasn't meant for a kid like Sam anyway; he'd deal without.

He took a left into the next room, entering his eighth period class, Business Law. For any other day but today, this would be his favorite class, a fascinating discussion on state laws and misdemeanors and the four exceptions to intentionally bearing arms on someone and busting their brains open. But today had gone through at a snail's pace, crawling boundlessly toward the end of the day but effectively staying in the same spot every time he looked at the clock.

He did so again, looking to the front of the class. 2:48.

What was his brother doing right now? The man hadn't responded when he'd called last night, which was plausible enough, but now he wasn't returning the call. Why?

Sam turned his hand over on the desk and admired the platinum watch around his wrist. Dean had given it to him three years back, but spent four working enough odd jobs to afford it.

He hasn't taken it off since.

Sam held the watch tightly to his chest, near his heart. What if something happened to Dean and his father? What if they weren't coming back? Sam's skin crawled. No, they were fine. Dean probably just didn't want to interrupt Sam's classes and is going to call later. _Or_ maybe Dean just had a rough night and forgot to call Sam back. No big deal, nothing to worry about.

The bell sounded like heaven when it signaled the end of the day.

The professor raised his hands, trying to speak above the instant chattering that had now spread throughout the room. "Don't forget to start working on your paper. It's due Wednesday! And Corvan, may I speak with you for a moment?"

Sam stiffened at the fake name, slowly gathering his books as he waited for the rest of the class to leave. The thirty-two teenagers were jammed in the door, shuffling and shoving at each other, the exiting process sluggish due to inefficient incompetence.

Mr. Browley turned to one of the boys shoveling through the door. "Do not curse, Mr. Kindell. That's inappropriate and can easily be replaced with a better, kinder word to get your point across. Understood?"

The large boy nodded quickly, then turned back and ran out the door.

Mr. Browley sighed. "Kids these days."

Sam tossed the backpack over his shoulder and put his hands in his pockets as he timidly walked up to Mr. Browley's desk.

"You asked for me, sir?"

Mr. Browley clasped his fingers together on the desk. "Yes, Samuel, I just wanted to personally congratulate you on your PSAT score." The professor smiled proudly. "It's a stupendous mark for someone your age and I highly encourage you to take the SAT and ACT as well."

Sam beamed at the praise, his cheeks blushing bright red as he remembered showing his father last week, even the gruff hunter raising a surprised eyebrow at his 228. "Thank you very much, sir, I will surely keep that in mind."

Mr. Browley smiled. "No praise has been received that is not deserved. Colleges will be competing heavily for you. May I ask if there are any you're interested in so far?"

Sam looked down at his shoes, suddenly realizing, again, who he was. He was a Winchester, college wasn't an option, not for someone in his line of duty.

Sam shook his head. "No, sir, not yet. I haven't…found the perfect one for me yet. Still looking." He smiled unsurely.

Mr. Browley nodded understandingly. "Of course, and you have plenty of time in the future for such decisions. Don't stress over it too much."

Sam nodded. "I'll try not to, sir."

Mr. Browley stood, leading Sam to the door. "Of course, and you can always come to me if you have concerns or questions."

Sam thanked him, gracing Mr. Browley with a dimpled smile before waving his goodbye. He heard the professor lock up the room and Sam took a left, leaving the building through the backdoor, beginning the mile trek to the motel.

As the walk progressed, Sam began looking at his still silent phone more and more frequently, the gray device clenched tightly in his hand, his veins protruding from the grip.

What was going on? Why weren't they calling him?

Thankfully, he arrived at the seedy motel with little tribulations, his only genuine problem when he had a _mild_ panic attack ten minutes back. Where was his _family, _damn it?

Sam decided, as calmly as his fragile mind could accomplish, that fretting and agonizing about it wouldn't solve his problems. Maybe he could start on his Business Law paper to keep his emotions more composed, collected and out of the way.

Fishing through his pocket, Sam trudged toward room 2, ironically located adjacent to the motel manager's room.

Heavy footsteps thudded against pavement as he readied to unlock the door, eerily similar in Sam's addled mind, and he curiously turned to face the beast, his expression trying to remain as stoic as possible.

The man was heavyset and obese, his muscles concealed by thick layers of fat. His cheeks were plump, the skin there tinted pink. His eyebrows were abundant, dark and thick as they protruded from his forehead to create a light but discernible shadow over his eyes, making him look almost menacing.

The man's apparel was simple enough- jeans, a white t-shirt and, curiously, a large brown jacket at least three sizes too big. Sam mentally shrugged it off, realizing it was probably due to low self-esteem.

The man smiled at Sam, the few teeth he had rotten or encased with gold, and Sam automatically returned the courtesy with his regular whites. This seemed to make the man smile even _more_, the sordid teeth and gaps glaring at him inside pink lips, and Sam was at a loss. How much smiling does one do before actual communication comes into play?He didn't want to appear rude.

The man seemed to take the leading position easily, though, offering a meaty hand to Sam, which he took. "Well howdy, boy, I sure hope you're enjoying your stay here. Anythin' I can help ya with?"

Sam noticed the accent, relating it back to last night. As discreetly as possibly, he looked the man over, trying to determine any potential hostility. Sam had always been taught to treat every being, human or other, as an impending threat until explicitly proven otherwise, so obviously Sam couldn't _help_ but be paranoid.

He shook his head politely, his smile beginning to crack from being held in place so long. "No, sir, I'm just fine, thank you." He turned his wrist over, creating the illusion that he actually _cared _what time it was, and looked up at the man, faking disappointment. "I'm sorry, sir, but it seems I should get going, got to get started on a paper. It was nice talking t-."

"Ahh, ya don't have to leave so soon, do ya? We were just startin' to get to know each other." Before Sam could further expand his excuse, mentally wondering how they'd ever gotten to _know _each other in these few seconds, the man resolutely continued. "Oh, and you're in Room 2, right? Is the microwave workin' in there a'ight? I heard it was pretty busted up."

Sam held his hands up, insist. "No, you don't need to worry about that. I have nothing to heat up so it's no use to me an-."

The man shook his head doggedly, grabbing Sam by the forearm. He seemed to stop for the smallest of seconds, squeezing the kid's arm lightly, as if feeling the hard muscle and thin skin underneath. But then the man was out of his daze, leading Sam to room 2.

To Sam's surprise, the man whipped out a key of his own, which for some reason daunted Sam, _this man can come into my room at any time, has he already, what do I do?_, and unlocked the door, throwing it open before leading Sam in.

"Sir, really-."

"And ya don' have to call me 'sir', you make me feel old and such. I ain't, boy, not yet. Jus' call me Larry," he said, winking. "Though, I'm sure I've introduced myself before, just not under…ideal circumstances."

Sam nodded, an unsure smile on his lip, trying to laugh it off. It didn't work.

"And I don't believe I've caught your name…"

Sam scrutinized the man, finding curiosity and a hint of fixation. Which scared him a bit. "Sam," he finally said, hesitant, purposely keeping it vague.

Larry smiled. "Sam…," he whispered absently, as if admiring the way it rolled off his tongue.

A moment later and Larry was once again leading Sam to his room, ready to oblige.

Somewhere between the bed and kitchen Sam had managed to slip out of the man's tight grip happy as hell none of the weaponry or notes were easily in sight, most with Dean and his father and the few others stashed in drawers or squashed by books.

_Damn if that wasn't close, _Sam thought exhaustively.

OOOOOO

After several long minutes of Larry's "hm"'s as he further inspected the microwave, it became evidently clear the heavy man had no idea what he was doing. He never went to look behind the microwave to find the broken wire, nor to see if it was even plugged in. He merely pressed random buttons, mainly consisting of "start" and "timer", and occasionally slammed his fist on.

"Well, kid, I dunno what to say. I think this here microwave is haunted," he said finally.

Sam nodded hurriedly, ready for him to _leave_. His family would never approve. Damn, what had he gotten himself into? "It's alright, sir. Err, Larry, I don't need to use it, really. The refrigerator will do just fine."

The man seemed torn, as if wanting to find an excuse to stay, but ultimately gave in. "A'ight, kid, if you say so."

He huffed, looking at his crouched knees for a second, then beckoned Sam over.

"Help an old man up, will ya?"

Sam stood like a deer in headlights, his hands held stiffly to his sides and hoping the reluctance wasn't obvious in his expression. He almost wanted to counter that, how Larry had previously said he _wasn't _old and therefore shouldn't be treated as such.

Adversely, he sidled over, reaching one hand out for the man before thinking, _I don't think this is going to work, _and brought out the other as insurance.

Larry reached and grabbed them both, his hands clasping onto Sam's in an almost lovingly manner. Or maybe it was possibly Sam's imagination and he was just looking for a valid excuse to watch this guy's head roll.

What Sam didn't expect was instead of pulling himself _up _off the ground, Larry seemed to pull his arms back down toward his body. Sam's feet lost purchase at the man's surely illegal weight and was sent stumbling onto Larry, his hips crashing abruptly into the man's lap.

Sam blushed profusely, scrambling hurriedly away. He threw himself off the man and crawled on his hands and knees several feet back.

"Oh my gosh, I'm sorry about that. God, I'm _really_ sorry."

Larry chuckled almost carnally, his facial expression purposely shadowed under his dark, greasy hair. "It's fine, my boy, no worries." He flipped over, getting onto his hands and knees before pushing himself up off the floor, in what Sam assumed was the only way his body was physically capable of maneuvering.

Overall, though possibly awkward, the process didn't appear that hard for the man at all.

Larry exhaled loudly, hands on his hips as if in thought. "Well, kid, I 'spose I should head out. Ya'll call if ya need me, right?"

Sam nodded furiously. "Yes, sir, of course. Anything."

Larry began the short trudge toward the exit, _damn it hurry up and get there!_, before stopping, his gaze falling on one of Sam's books on the bed. Sam felt like crying as Larry turned _away_ from the door to go and pick it up_. _He looked at the cover curiously for a few moments before turning back to Sam, a perverse, indefinable smile on his features.

"Don't a boy get raped in dis here book?" he asked as he flipped through the pages of _The Kite Runner_.

Sam rolled on his heels. "Yes, sir, tragic, but hardly the foundation of the novel. The author focuses almost solely on the three aspects of loyalty, betrayal, and redemption. Amir allowed his best friend to be cruelly assaulted so he could ultimately prove to his father he was worthy of praise." Sam sneered at the hypocrisy. "He tried to—."

"So the kid was raped?" Larry interrupted.

Sam almost felt himself pout, but his mind was telling him it was more than just idle curiosity. Why was he so stuck on rape?

Sam shivered. "Yes, he was raped, as was his son."

Larry nodded, the smile once again making itself known. "That's all I wanted to know." He turned to Sam fully and bowed, his heavy stature making it a bit difficult to bend as gracefully as most. "It was such a pleasure talkin' wit ya, Sam, but now I must bid ya goodbye." He strode to the door and stopped before fully closing it. "I'll see ya later then. Take care," he said with a wink.

Sam watched as the man left, the bravado he'd held up for so long falling into nothing, and instantly he felt himself growing anxious. Oh shit, what had he _done? _What had Dean told him not too long ago? _Don't open the door for strangers. _Hell, the man had just let _himself _in. Sam put a hand over his mouth. Surely the man was innocent, just overly curious, is all. Nothing to worry about.

Sam opened up his cell, speed dialing Dean's number nervously, his stomach flipping with unease.

He almost expected it when it went to voicemail.

_OOOOOO_

After leaving a quick message, "Hey this is Sam, nothing of absolute priority but please call me when you get a chance. Bye," he began gathering his things in a hurry, stuffing clothes into his duffel and collecting his toiletries from the pint-sized bathroom before placing them in as well. He did a quick once-over of the entire room, glancing around to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything vital. He had to leave, now. He was going to get out of this creepy motel with this creepy manager and find his family.

Sam looked outside through the window, noting the now dark sky and fierce-looking clouds before him. His mind screamed at him to wait, wait at least until it was closer to daytime, but he didn't think he could.

What if he was the only Winchester left?

He hurriedly threw the duffel over his shoulder, already striding out the door with a plan. He closed it behind him, locking it as securely as the wobbly knob would allow.

He turned around and nearly jumped out of his skin when he was met face-to-face with Larry Foreman, the man's expression determined, as if prepared for a fight.

"Sam…" he began slowly, hands on his hips, his too-big jacket once again wrapped around his frame. "May I ask where you're goin'? Not 'cause of the room, I hope," he said, eyeing Sam's duffel.

Sam shook his head frantically, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he subconsciously tightened his grip on the duffel. "No, no sir, just taking a trip to my uncle's. Small visit, is all."

Larry cocked his head in question. "Mighty late to be out and about, don't ya think? And in this weather?"

Sam shivered, a few drops of rain drizzling onto his arm. "I, I...my uncle...he's, uh, to be honest he's a bit sick. Lung cancer. I wanted to check up on him."

Larry nodded, thoroughly unconvinced. He suddenly licked his lips, the muscular organ flashing out in what looked like an attempt at alluring. "Ya know, boy, I saw your daddy an' brother leave the other day." He shrugged. "They told me, ya know that?"

Sam shook his head, subtly taking a step back, then another. "I'm sorry, I don't- I don't understand…"

The burly man took a step forward. "They told me they didn't want ya anymore, that I could have ya instead." His smile grew twisted. "Kinda looks like it's jus' you an' me now."

Sam grimaced as reality hit him hard in the stomach, sweating profusely as he added everything up. The implications were too obvious to ignore. He mentally smacked himself; how could he not _see_ this? That this man wanted…

And Sam was all alone.

Sam pushed the man out of the way as best he could, his hands shoving aside a few pounds of fat but, other than that, was absolutely futile in getting Larry out of the way.

Left with little choice, he instead turned and frantically sprinted in the opposite direction, listening to both pleas and yells as Sam escaped, knowing the man was too large to keep up.

What he didn't expect, though, was a sudden, loud boom traveling through the air in a terrifying _swoosh_, and suddenly Sam was parallel with the ground, landing hard on the flat surface. His hand immediately reached for his shin, an impossible amount of pain originating from that place alone. He groaned, panic brewing in his stomach as his hand came back red and bloody.

He looked up to see Larry standing over him eagerly, a large, menacing gun in his hands. Had that been the purpose of the man's too-big jacket? Had he been hiding it all along?

Then the heavy gun was rising and falling in Larry's hands, and Sam's hand barely grazed his own gun as Larry's collided with his head.

_OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO_

Dean moaned, his eyes squinting despite the sparse light scattered throughout the room. His gaze was dull and hazy, and every muscle moved was a muscle in flaming, horrendous pain.

"Dean?"

He tried to suppress a groan as he turned his head to search for the source of the voice, his distorted vision barely producing the sight of a muscular, oddly familiar man.

"Dean," the voice spoke again, this time more demanding, less questioning. A light went off distantly in Dean's head and he instantly discovered the man to be his father. Dean sighed in relief, trying to ignore the tightening of his chest as he did so. When time allowed, he looked over his father's body for injuries. Aside from a few scratches, John appeared wholesome and unharmed.

He looked around the expansive room, the dull gray walls reminding him of an under-crowded prison cell. The lack of furniture or decorations was odd, and he couldn't help but feel curious what a room this vast and hollow was intended for. Dean sighed. Unfortunately, they could not use the wide length to their advantage, Dean noted vaguely as he tugged on his ankle chain.

"Dean." Once again, harsh and severe, and Dean turned to face John, nodding lightly once he realized a response was needed of him.

"I'm good," he said, voice raspy. He held a hand protectively over his side as he pushed himself into a more comfortable sitting position. He hissed through his teeth, almost sighing in relief when he reached a more comfy position. "How long have we been here?"

John shrugged, looking over the wide, empty surroundings. "I dunno, maybe a day or two."

Dean gasped, entirely ignoring the ache in his hoarse throat as his heart beat fiercely against his battered chest. "Sammy."

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit._

John shook his head, trying to be reassuring. "I'm sure he's fine, Dean. Stop worrying about him; we need to think of a way to get us out of here."

Just as John's last words were spoken, a yellow-eyed demon popped vivaciously into the spacious room, his smile sinister and hands rubbing together contemplatively.

"Well hello again Winchesters minus one. So nice to see you two again."

Dean growled, his body instinctively moving to stand and fight. John raised a hand and held tightly onto Dean's arm, restraining him.

"What do you want?" John asked, doing his best to stay calm.

The demon's smile widened, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his feet. "You know, Johnny-boy, maybe you should listen to Deano every once in a while."

John's eyebrows grew to the shape of a sharp, angry "V". "What's that supposed to mean, you bastard?" The demon shrugged nonchalantly. "Oh, you know, just the usual. Nothing too important, I assume."

Dean worked against John's constraint. He bellowed, "What the hell are you talking about, you son of a bitch? Where's Sammy?"

The demon shrugged. "Oh, don't worry, Sam is exactly where you left him. For the most part, at least. I'm afraid he'll be having some…company over for a while."

Dean snarled fiercely, a feral rumble emitting from deep in his throat. "If you so much as _touch_ him—."

The demon held his hands up defensively, smiling. "Me? Deano, I'm hurt you would jump to such wildly conclusions so quickly. _I _haven't done anything." His smile widened, a gleam of depravity in his wide grin. "But, I suppose I can't really say the same for others, now can I?"

Dean pulled harder against the chains, and the demon disappeared.

_OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO_

"What's a pretty boy like ya doin' carryin' guns 'round?"

Sam returned to the land of the living in a gradual process, his eyes squeezing tightly shut against his will, as if sensing danger from the reality he was about to enter. He wanted so badly to curl back up into a ball and sleep, but something was screaming at him that he needed to wake up, _now. _Instead, though, he mentally searched for the voice again, his sensitive ears probing for the smallest hint of a noise. It didn't sound like Dean, or John, and he hadn't made any friends here, so who? Why would anyone want to talk to him if they didn't absolutely have to?

He forced his eyes open slowly, sensitive to the flickering light above his head. He turned to his left to see…someone, a man, watching him. The man was large, larger than was considered healthy, and Sam tried rolling away from the man, his limbs aching from lack of use.

But then he realized it wasn't just the customary ache that was keeping him in place. He looked up, noticing sturdy clamps around his thin wrists, both shackled together tightly before chained to the front of the bed.

Then he remembered, the memory gates flooding toward him in a maddening, nauseating rush. _Larry_. The guy that followed Sam around and talked to him a lot and wanted to get to know him and kept touching him and obsessed over rape and _oh fucking shit._

Sam panicked, his mouth opening to scream, but nothing came out. Only susurrated, hushed sounds escaped his lips, and he only vaguely realized there were multiple layers of duck tape on his mouth. Instead, his legs, now suddenly only clad in worn jeans, went out flailing, both reaching to kick the man and find a miraculous escape at the same time.

Larry managed to catch both feet under one meaty arm, Sam's bandaged shin screaming in protest, while the other hand wielded a wickedly crafted machete, sharp and piercing. A grin slid on Larry's face as he watched Sam's entire body tense, eyes wide.

"Now, now, boy, don't want ya doin' anythin' foolish here and makin' me do somethin' I don't wanna." He teased the boy, trailing the tip of the machete over Sam's crotch. Sam groaned, turning his head away as his body unwillingly reacted. Larry set the knife down diplomatically onto the wooden dresser beside the bed. "If ya behave I won' have to use it, you hear me?"

Sam just stayed in place, his expression disbelieving.

The man held onto his legs, a menacing smile on his features. "Gosh, boy, ya sure are pretty." His smile widened. "I 'spose it's a good thing your family left ya for me, then, don't ya think?" He lazily slid a finger beneath the thin denim and trailed it up and down Sam's leg, his own body racing with excitement as shivers ran through Sam's. Sam fought violently against the restraining tape, and Larry bent down and kissed Sam's ankle, keeping his eyes fixed on Sam's face. "Ya don't believe me, do ya? Ya don't actually think your family left ya for my own eternal pleasure?"

The large man placed Sam's legs down onto the bed, instead getting onto his knees and putting his entire body over Sam's, acting as a physical restraint. "I 'spose you'll figure it out soon enough." Sam thrashed under the repulsive body despite threats of losing his manhood, his back arching as he pushed against the man's weight.

Larry groaned. "Mm, that makes me so hard for ya. Keep doin' dat, just like dat."

Sam stopped, his head turning to one side, a tear trailing from his eye. Larry _tsked_, wiping the tear away with one fat finger.

Larry put his hands on either side of Sam's waist and heaved, pushing himself into a kneeling position, almost straddling Sam's thighs. He placed his hands at the waistband of Sam's jeans, fingering the button sensually. Throwing a glance at Sam's horrified expression, he smiled. Without warning, he unsnapped the button and trailed a thumb and finger down to the zipper, slowly dragging it down.

Sam lashed out then, thrusting a powerful knee between Larry's legs. The older man gasped loudly, his hands cupping his groin in pain as he threw himself off the bed, away from his attacker. His face turned red with anger, his gaze falling onto the cruel, vengeful boy beside him.

His hand automatically grabbed for the machete, and for a good five minutes all the man felt was rage, slicing deep enough to hurt, and bad.

But after the pain had subsided, so did his anger. He stopped the machete at the thin skin of Sam's upper thigh, having already created a trail from crotch to knee.

"Well, boy," he said panting, looking at the pained and breathless boy beneath him, "That just goes to show ya how useless it is to fight with me. It won't get ya anything except hurt." Suddenly turned on by the boy's suffering, Larry bent over and licked at the blood on the crook of Sam's elbow, his tongue grazing carelessly.

As he enjoyed himself, he took a peek at the rest of Sam's long, unblemished arm and his gaze absently fell on the boy's wrist. He quit his ministrations, leaning up and taking a hand to Sam's wrist, the one bearing the platinum watch. He admired it thoughtfully, wondering how the boy could own such an ornate watch and still check in to a motel like this. "That's a nice watch you got there. A gift, I assume?"

Sam sat there silent, eyes cold and chilling.

"You got it from your daddy or your bro?"

Again, Sam said nothing, and Larry reached for the machete, grasping it and once again poking at Sam's groin.

Sam gasped in pain, sweat trailing down his forehead.

"From your brother?" Larry asked again.

Sam nodded, exasperated, and the harsh point was released, the machete set back on the table.

"See, boy? That wasn't so hard." He reached back to Sam's hand and, with both hands, carefully unclasped the watch from his wrist. "Ah, what a pretty watch. I'm mighty jealous of ya, boy." He smirked. "Well, not anymore, I'm not."

Sam screamed fiercely against the duct tape, his neck straining and veins popping out from beneath the skin as his mouth worked tirelessly against the obstruction.

Larry slapped him, the boy instantly falling silent as his cheek grew a dark shape of red.

Larry smiled joyfully, putting the watch onto his own chubby wrist. "Wow, Sammy, I really appreciate this great birthday present. A little early, but I don't mind. Who knew you were such a romantic?"

He sighed contently and put his face in the nape of Sam's neck, nuzzling it and flashing his tongue out for a taste. Sam shifted away in disgust.

He leaned closer to Sam's face, his hot breath tickling his ear. "Ya know, boy, I've watched a lot of videos like dis in my day, damn they got me so much wood, but, ya know what? I don' think they will _ever _be as hot and kinky as ours will be. Don' ya agree?" Sam whimpered, and Larry leaned over a bit and opened his wooden drawer of goodies. "Look how many toys I got. We're just gonna have _lots_ of fun wit them, too."

Larry lifted one hand above Sam's head and encompassed both of Sam's hands in his. "An' I bet you're wonderin' why you're chained up like dat, with the shackles and the chain that way and such. It's so I can flip ya over easier. Ya see, boy, unlike some people," he bent over and licked Sam's cheek passionately, "I like both sides."

Sam screamed gallingly against the tape, his mind shattering as Larry flipped him onto his stomach. He shook his head in denial, his heavy tears trailing down his cheeks.

Larry pressed himself fiercely against Sam's back as he licked at the boy's ear, his tongue playing with the lobe before a quick press of teeth.

Cloth slid off Sam's hips without consent and were heard being thrown aimlessly across the room, it's destination a few yards to the side of the bed. Larry pressed back against him a moment later, his teeth biting and sucking on his back. Sam gasped against the tape as vile, indescribable _pain_ pushed inside him, and the world fell away.

**_OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO_**

**Well there's Chapter 2. I hope everyone enjoyed this update and that you will hopefully take the time to review. A simple word or two on any possible complaints or criticisms would be much obliged, I assure you.**

**Hope it reached your expectations. Until next time!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello all, I am SO sorry this was delayed. Can you believe the first time I tried posting this was last LAST Sunday? I feel awful about my tardiness, but Fanfiction decided to throw an "error" sign in my face. I sent the site at least five different emails explaining my problem, and they never responded AT ALL and the only assistance I got was from the lovely Our Eleventh Hour, who showed me how to amend the problem.**  
**Because of this delay, I decided to lengthen this chapter as a peace offering of sorts. I apologize for the tardiness, and hopefully this maddening error will not occur again. **

**Hope you all enjoy!  
****_OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO_**

**Two Days Later**

Sam woke with a start as something clamped fiercely onto his neck, cold metal chilling his flesh. His eyes flew open to search for the culprit before landing on Larry.

Always on Larry.

The man's wide smile was unnerving and nauseating, and Sam shut his eyes suddenly, trying to escape from the reality he was forced to live.

He shouldn't have opened his eyes, he kept screaming to himself. If he'd kept them shut then maybe these past few days wouldn't have to feel so _real, _wouldn't have to live with him while he was awake and haunt him while he slept.

Never had his father ever ridiculed him so much, tormented him for his endless failures to such an extent that he felt this

hollow, this lifeless.

Larry kissed him roughly on the mouth, his venomous tongue fighting with Sam's. He pulled out, panting. "Mm, I gotta say, ya sure are a good kisser."

He almost felt like he was drowning, flapping his arms wildly in a watery abyss he could never escape from. Through thin walls, he could barely hear the sound of cars speeding passed on the adjacent main roads. Could they not hear him?

A tear dripped down Sam's nose. Never before had he ever felt as alone as he did now. His throat felt sore, like he'd been screaming for days, years even. So why wasn't anyone coming to save him from this slow, eternal death? He _was_ screaming…wasn't he? It felt like it, but maybe it was his imagination fooling him, just like everyone else can.

"Damn good thing you're _mine." _Larry laughed, and Sam finally noticed the chain in the thick hand. The man gave it a big tug, and Sam felt himself being lurched off the bed, his body feeling a strange sensation of free-fall before landing hard onto the cold, merciless floor. He coughed as the accumulated dirt on the floor flowed into his mouth, making him gag painfully.

Larry came over and crouched beside the boy, petting his hair adoringly, like he was something to be cherished. "Alright, boy, I want ya on all fours." He swung an arm around Sam's slim waist and hoisted him roughly onto his chained hands and bare knees. Sam felt Larry smile as the man's hand began trailing slowly down his back, further and further until it reached it's target. He whispered seductively into his ear. "I wanna play dirty today."

**4 Days Later**

Dean pushed violently against his chained ankle, almost feeling something inside his leg pull against the infliction he was causing himself. He hissed, continuing his ministrations until John stood and silently restrained him.

"Damn it, Dean, stop it. You're going to hurt yourself." He gripped both of Dean's shoulders and forcibly made him face him. "We'll figure a way out of this, son—."

One pair of steps sounded on the hard floor. "How has your visit been so far? Comfortable, I hope," came the demon, walking gracefully down the steps to stand in front of the Winchesters.

Dean growled, "Where's Sam?"

The demon smiled in false wonder, "Oh? You wish to know where little Sammy is?" The demon's smile widened, sinister and carnal, "I'd be happy to show you what's happening to him at this _very moment_ if you'd like."

Dean nodded furiously, but beside him John huffed loudly, his voice gruff. "As if we'd believe it. Let's not fool ourselves and think you'll actually tell us the_ truth_."

The demon cocked his head, his smile still in place, and shrugged. "Fine, then I guess I'll just be showing Deano here."

He knelt beside Dean and, ignoring John's numerous shrieks of protest, put two fingers to Dean's forehead in fierce concentration. Dean felt a warm niggling in his brain, only a little uncomfortable, but not painful. He squinted in pain as the once dull ache grew stronger, and hotter, and hotter still, and at the exact moment it felt like his brain was searing and he couldn't breathe—

_"Hey, sexy," Larry said huskily as he stepped under the showerhead, Sam already wet from waiting as directed under the cool spray. Larry pressed up tightly against Sam's back, wrapping his arms around the boy's waist. He bent his head down and his lips danced along Sam's neck, trailing his skin with a tongue before taking a quick bite of flesh._

_Larry's hands traveled downward and placed themselves firmly on Sam's hips, the fingers tightening against the jutting bones. _

_The older man aligned himself with Sam and began suddenly shoving against Sam. He moaned loudly, his hips starting to more rhythmically lunge into Sam, the boy's hands leaning heavily against the wall for purchase as the thrusts pushed him violently forward. _

_He gasped, panting heavily for breath when the man finally finished, Sam's legs feeble and wobbly from the abuse. On shaky legs, Sam was turned around to face Larry, the man's eyes blown with lust. _

_In one swift motion, he was pushed bodily into the wall, their bodies out of the range of the falling water as Larry's large berth pressed hard against Sam's thin body. _

_Larry moaned into Sam's ear before licking sensually at the lobe. "So good, so good, Sammy. God, I love you so much."_

_After a messy kiss on the lips and Sam was being released from the pressure, instead a bar of soap being pressed firmly into his hands._

_"I want you to bathe me." Larry lifted his arms, watching the boy keenly. "All of me."_

—Dean gasped in horror, what little food he'd eaten immediately thrown back up in a heap of gross gooey, chunky liquids. Tears welled in his eyes, strings of saliva and vomit dripping on the sides of his mouth, and for a moment he'd thought he died. What kind of person could live a life like this? Live a life knowing your brother could be being raped, and you couldn't do a damn fucking thing about it. A harsh sob echoed through the gray room, and it was only until John was pulling him into his arms did he realize it was his.

"Shh, Dean, shh, whatever you saw it wasn't true. We'll figure this out, I promise."

For hours Dean laid frailly in his father's strong arms, crying as the man lightly patting his back or petting his short hair. When he'd regained some sense of sanity, Dean lifted his head from John's chest, sighing loudly as he hiccupped, a leftover from the fierce crying fit.

Dean sniffed. "Thanks".

John just nodded. "Yeah, yeah, no problem." He licked his lips, not sure how to start. "I…I…What, um…what did you see happening to Sam?"

Tears welled up in Dean's eyes, and John thought for a moment the crying fit would begin again. But Dean held it in like a dam, and softly spoke, "R-ra...M-my baby brother was…raped."

John looked at his son in surprise and anguish. "It's alright, Dean, we'll get through this, just stay calm."

Dean's eyes bugged out. "_Calm_? You want me to remain _calm_ when my brother is left unprotected with some god-fucking _pervert_ while we're stuck in this filthy place with no way to escape. I mean, we're freakin' _chained_ to the wall, Dad." He sighed, his eyes feeling suspiciously watery. He fisted a hand in them. "We'll never get out of here. And Sammy…"

"Sammy will be fine. Once we get outta here, I'll prove to you he's just dandy."

"But the demon,—"

"You know just as well as I that demons lie. This is just one of those many instances."

"But demons tell the truth when it benefits them," Dean shouted in anger, the image feeling too vivid and horrifying to be fake.

John looked at his son sadly, shifting from one foot to the other. "Son, if you keep telling yourself that you're going to fall apart."

Dean choked down a sob, replying with a small nod, his speech physically taken from him as he considered the disastrous possibilities. What if something was happening to his baby brother at this very moment, and Dean wasn't there to save him?

John continued softly. "Get some sleep, and when you wake up we'll figure out a way out of here."

Dean barely nodded, lying back onto the hard, jagged floor. He curled his body into a ball, waiting for what felt like decades before falling into a restless, almost precariously volatile sleep, his brain exploding with uncertainty and guilt.

**2 Months Later**

Larry wiped at the counter, not caring if it got clean but wanting to act like he was doing something at least semi-productive, just in case a customer came by. He sighed, wishing not for the first time if he could just close down the whole damn motel business and just stay in his dark little room forever. He smiled slyly, all fantasies fulfilled whenever he wanted and nobody needing keys to their damn rundown rooms, distracting Larry from his business. He didn't think he'd _ever_ get bored of his boy, not now that he was his.

But, he also realized, money didn't come easy, and if he planned on eating and having what was his he'd have to continue the family business. Fucking and finances had to be done separately but equally.

An older woman in her fiftys, dressed too nicely to even consider stopping by a place like this, stepped into the building, her cool eyes looking around gruesomely before schooling her features. Her graying hair was placed in a neat bun, a few strays left out to better define her face as her yellow, sunny dressed flowed to knee-length.

Larry tried to control his sneer, his eyes feeling disgust for her. Who was _she_ to think she was better than him? He didn't have to read her mind to feel the waves of contempt.

Despite his thoughts, the woman came up to the desk politely, her eyes portraying no ill thoughts toward the man.

"Hello dear sir, I'm Laura Browley," her gloved hand showing no hesitance as she shook Larry's. She then reached her hand into her purse, pulling out a photograph. "I know this is a strange time for you, but do you recall if you've seen this boy?" Holding out the photograph, Larry nearly threw up at the sight of Sam's face, _his Sam's_ face, printed neatly on the photograph, above it reading "Missing Teen". It looked like a picture for the school yearbook, his smile bright and damn pretty as he smiled at the camera.

Larry's heartbeat doubled and he felt sweat crawl down his forehead and make residence at the nape of his neck. He wiped at it, his expression trying to remain stoic. "Why ya askin'? Ya the mother of this boy or somethin'?"

The older woman shook her head sorrowfully. "Sadly, no. Nobody can seem to find the boy's parents anywhere, and I don't know where to look."

Larry watched her with what he hoped was a suspicious look. "Ya don' even know the boy yet you're out lookin' for him and his parents." He crossed his arms over his bulky chest with difficulty. "Sounds awfully weird to me."

Mrs. Browley shook her head frantically. "No, sir, I assure you, I have nothing but the best intentions." She looked down, sniffling. "You see, my husband taught Sam Winchester for a couple of weeks at a high school nearby." She smiled sadly, lost in a memory. "He always talked about how bright the boy was, how much potential he had. And, well…" She shrugged fondly, "I guess I began forming my own opinions of the boy not soon after". She looked up to meet Larry's eyes, resolution and determination fierce in her light blue eyes. "We're going to find him; we must."

Larry's eyebrows rose then as certain implications came to light, his breathing raspy and strained. "'We'? What are ya talkin' 'bout, lady? You make it sound like there's a huge mob lookin' for this boy."

She nodded again. "Yes, nearly the entire town has been going around for weeks now, asking around or just merely calling out the boy's name, hoping and praying for some sort of response. We've tried getting in touch with his parents, but they either don't care or are the actual ones at fault for Sam's disappearance."

Larry shook his head, feigning sadness. "Well, that's mighty distressin' but I'm sad to say I haven' seen no boy like that one in your picture. If I do I'll be sure to run him over to the authorities, get him some place safe."

She shook her head. "No, please, if you don't mind I'd like you to call me on my cell if you find him," she said, handing him her card. She added quickly, "I want to make sure he's safe with my own eyes."

Larry knew without her saying that Mrs. Browley was thinking of the authority-figures in town, corrupt and uncaring. Instead of the police out on the search for the boy, the mundane townspeople are left to flounder about in aimless search without the essential tools for uncovering hidden clues or important evidence. The only way to get the police up on their asses was to place immense wads of money into their wallets.

Larry nodded, thankful for their great diligence and perseverance on saving lost boys with no mommy or daddy. "'Course, ma'am, will do," he said, smiling.

"Thank you, kind sir. It's a pleasure to know you'll look out for the boy, as well." She put the picture of pretty Sammy back into her purse and began walking briskly toward the exit. She turned back, "Oh, and that's a very beautiful watch you have there."

Larry looked down to the platinum watch on his wrist, and smiled carnally. "Well, thank ya, ma'am. A dear friend gave it to me a while back,"

She nodded her approval then waved politely. "Thank you again," she said, exiting.

Larry waved his goodbye, his smile falling off his face instantly as his mind nearly exploded with unwanted but necessary thoughts. How had he not _known_ they were searching for his kid? _How?_

He banged his big fist heavily onto the table, relishing in the pain he inflicted. It would be okay, he tried to convince himself. As long as he kept Sam locked up in the room and away from suspecting eyes, there would be no reason to worry.

Larry nodded to himself definitively and decided to turn in early, changing the beat-up sign to "Closed" before locking up and heading to his own room.

_0o0o0o0_

He closed and locked the door tightly behind him, a smile gliding much too easily across his features as he looked through the darkness to see his boy lying prone on his back, hands clasped firmly together above his head and ankles shackled to the two bedposts at the foot of the bed. Larry glorified over the boy's body, clothes fully shed and gathering dust in the corner of the room. Of course, there were always the rare occasions where Sam was forced to wear one of the taut, kinky costumes Larry had bought a few weeks ago specifically for Sam's enjoyment.

Well, his as well, of course.

The boy's eyes were dull and glazed over, and Larry wished his boy would smile like he had in that school picture. He walked over to the bedside table, picking out a clean, pointed pocketknife, sharp and menacing.

Larry turned back to the bed and climbed onto it, the springs groaning under his weight. He settled in on his side next to Sam, bringing the thin covers up over both of them. Larry placed the knife on Sam's stomach, tapping the boy's nose with a chubby finger before sliding it down the boy's chest to play lightly with his nipples. "Why don't ya smile for me, boy? I really wish ya would." Larry smiled. "Ya'd be _so_ pretty. Even prettier than ya are now." He snuggled up close to Sam, his own, larger nose nuzzling in Sam's greasy hair. "Really wish ya'd smile for me."

A silent moment later and Larry leaned back up, watching the boy's emotionless face with curiosity. Hoping to get some sort of reaction, he leaned forward and ravished the boy's cheek with his wet tongue but, aside from the smallest of grimaces, got nothing. Picking up the knife, he brought it just below the boy's nipple and sliced downward, creating a red trail of blood as it cut smoothly into the flawless flesh. Larry licked his lips at the sight, trailing the knife further down over Sam's bony hip then over his inner thigh. Larry continued the trail until he reached Sam's calf, every inch of the knife wound deep enough to scar.

Still Sam was not responding as he had hoped, and Larry contemplated how he should proceed. After a moment, his face lit up and he placed the knife down, bringing a hand to Sam's balls and squeezing them experimentally.

"Say something."

Sam continued to lay there, "Stop."

Larry squeezed harder. "Beg me."

Sam squirmed under the bigger man's demeaning ministrations, feeling his body start to respond. "Please stop."

Larry smiled wickedly, replacing his hand with a hot mouth.

Sam moaned lightly and, without the consent of his mind, bucked into the man's mouth, gasping.

Larry hummed, "I love it when you're like this."

"Please stop."

Larry removed his mouth with a "pop" sound and sat up, looking hungrily into Sam's eyes. "If the next thing that comes out of that mouth isn't 'Let's fuck', you'll be wearing that kinky waitress costume you hate for a week."

Sam swallowed hard, his gaze landing just over Larry's left shoulder. "Let's fuck," he said finally, feeble and unconvincing.

He wore it anyway.

**4 Months Later **

Larry lay beside Sam's prone body idly and contently, his thick fingers stringing through the kid's gorgeous brown locks.

Larry slapped Sam hard across the face. "Look at me."

On command, Sam's head rolled slowly along the lumpy pillow to face the larger, wanting man. Larry remembered the times when Sam had fought him tooth and nail to get away, to escape lustful hands and other…dirtier body parts. Larry smiled happily, looking over Sam's lax, unmoving features with pride. The boy's expression was distant, almost detached from reality. Not quite apathetic but too hurt and uncaring to push against the shackles latching him to the bed. He knew there was no escape, so he stopped trying to find one.

Larry's smile widened menacingly. _He _had done this to the boy, he and no other.

"You're so beautiful," he said, rolling a finger along the unblemished skin of Sam's cheek. How could a single boy be crafted and created by one single being and achieve so much perfection? He marveled in the boy's flawlessness, his innumerable scars only making him all the more beautiful. He shook his head wistfully. He was only glad the boy was his.

His cell phone rang from the dresser containing the wooden drawer of goodies, and Larry sighed and huffed as he reached over Sam's unmoving body to get to it. Sam didn't so much as grunt when victim to Larry's heavy weight.

Flipping it open, he carelessly put the phone to his ear. "Hello," Larry said gruffly.

The responding voice was masculine and curious.

"Yes, I'm here to make a…possible inquiry."

Larry raised both eyebrows. "About what?"

"Sam Winchester."

Larry gulped, his throat suddenly dry and constricted. He looked to the boy beside him, the kid somehow sensing his apprehension as he watched him with something almost similar to interest. An interest that had never been there until _now._ There was an indescribable spark in Sam's eyes, and it deterred the older man considerably, like an itch he couldn't scratch.

Larry cleared his throat to control his sudden anger, hoping he sounded confident enough. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"No, Mr. Foreman, I think you do. Don't worry, I won't…tell anyone. That has little importance to me."

"Then what do ya want? How the hell did ya get this number?"

It almost sounded like the man on the phone was shrugging. "A few mere companions assisted me. It took a while but after some digging we found you with little trouble."

Larry looked to the boy, who was watching him with wide, puppy-dog eyes, and Larry felt appalled to realize what expression that was. _Hopeful. _His supposedly broken, completely inoperative sex toy was hopeful for a reprieve. _From him._

He kneed Sam in the balls for his insolence.

Larry nearly growled into the phone. "_Well? _What do ya _want?"_

The man exhaled into the phone and stated bluntly, "I wish to buy the boy. If not permanently, then at least for a few hours."

Larry did a double take and his entire outlook changed drastically, his lips curling up into a big, hedonistic smile, watching Sam's altering expression the entire time. He didn't look so hopeful anymore.

Good.

"Ahh, so ya want to some fun, I see. How much ya lookin' to pay for him?"

Sam's expression turned to horror, his eyes squeezing shut in the face of what this world had become.

_Yes, my beautiful creature. We're all just sinful, wicked men that wish to take pleasure in your body. The moral and respectable no longer have a place in this world. _

"One hundred an hour."

Larry's smile felt like a suddenly undeviating transformation, ceaseless in his feeling of superiority.

"Want him that bad, do ya? A'ight, I can do that. When ya wantin' him?"

"Tonight, eight o'clock. I want him until eleven."

Larry looked at the dusty clock beside the bed, reading _4:25p.m. _"Okay, where we meetin'?"

"There's an old bar in town, Ol' Billy Brew. We'll meet there."

Larry looked back at Sam, his gaze worried. "I dunno…"

The man on the phone audibly scoffed. "Oh, you don't have to worry about that anymore. People have stopped looking for your boy ages ago. Besides, the bar has been around years past its prime, just an old rundown place now. It's more desolate and abandoned than my grandmother's grave."

Larry nodded in relief. "A'ight, we can arrange that." He played with a strand of Sam's hair. "Oh, and I'll be acceptin' those $400 in cash."

"Don't worry, I got that part covered." He sounded like he was smiling.

Larry squeezed his eyebrows together for a moment, considering. "What should I be callin' ya, may I ask?"

The man sounded smug. "Just call me Joe. And don't worry about finding me; I'll find you." With that, the man hung up.

Larry flipped the phone shut and tossed it to the side. He turned to Sam and his smile brightened on the ubiquitous expression once again present: despondent and brooding, completely aware of his fate and his God-given purpose to please. He toppled onto the boy's chest, cherishing the yelp that hissed through his mouth under his heavy stature.

"Ya know what he was callin' for?" Larry smiled as he traced a hand over Sam's nipple. "He wants to have your body all for himself. Aren't ya excited?" Larry bent down to take the nub in his mouth, nibbling slightly. "Ya know, if ya play your cards right ya could become a pornstar or somethin', get paid for bein' all sexy and gorgeous and such. How would ya like that?" Larry laid his head down on the boy's chest for a few moments before returning his attention back to Sam's nipples, biting down incessantly harder until he heard Sam yelp. "I asked ya a question, boy."

Sam lay there as defiantly as was possible in his degrading position on the bed, his mouth twisted into something gross. "You're a sick son of a bitch, and when my brother comes he will kill your sorry ass."

The boy talked high and mighty, but Larry saw the telltale twitch in Sam's lip, that faint hint of doubt in Sam's pretty eyes that told Larry otherwise. It was discrete, but obvious enough that Sam had lost faith in his family long ago, maybe even before Larry met him. Unlikely, but possible.

Larry shrugged with a "what can you do?" look. "I dunno what to tell ya, kid." He grinned. "Well, other than that I'll be havin' a feast on that body of yours for another two hours. Afterward, we'll take us a nice, long shower, get ya ready for some more love-makin'." He laughed maniacally as he pressed the boy closer to his body. "I gotta say, you're in for a long day, pretty boy."

**3 ½ hours later**

Larry put the car in park outside the bar, flashing a glance at Sam in the passenger seat. His face was unnaturally pale, like it usually was, and the kid kept pulling at his jacket sleeves, scratching at the thin skin beneath.

Larry grabbed the kid's thin wrist, jerking it away from his other arm. "Stop that." Sam stopped, but Larry could tell he didn't want to, not at all.

It had been months since his boy had worn _real_ clothes, and it seemed the kid would never get used to them again, as if any material on his body was now strange and unfamiliar to him. The large man smiled.

It was ironic, really. The clothes the boy was wearing now were the exact ones he had worn when Larry had claimed him as his own. Ever since then, the big man knew Sam had been hoping to return to his family, craved for it, yet, now that he has been given a piece of that home, it's repulsive to him.

How beautiful.

Larry watched him interestedly. "Ya wanna go back to your home, boy?"

Sam continued staring out the car window a long time, his face expressionless and dull, but something in Larry told him that the boy was genuinely considering his question. His face was pensive, like he'd never properly deliberated it before and now he was actually curious how he felt about it. It was the second time Larry had seen an actual emotion on Sam's face in months.

Maybe that wasn't necessarily a good thing.

Sam shook his head. "No," he said, voice raspy.

Larry's eyebrows nearly flew off in his surprise. "What? Ya don' wanna see your family again?"

Sam looked down at his lap, using his hair as a curtain as he fingered a small hole in his worn out jeans. "I…I do, I want to see them so bad, but…" His hands turned to loose fists. "I don't want them to see me, see what I've become." Larry saw through the veil of chocolate locks as Sam closed his eyes, a tear falling down his cheek. "They'd be so disgusted."

A decision seemed to be made in those pretty eyes, and Sam's head jerked up as he wrenched the car door open, throwing himself out of the car in a maddening rush.

Before Larry could properly orient himself with the situation, Sam was already flying on wobbly, unused legs across the parking lot, his feet stumbling along the pavement.

Larry lurched his own door open, the mere effort of getting his body out of the small vehicle exhausting. He strained himself the most he was able, his heavy feet pounding on the pavement toward his boy, to get him back, but already he could see it wasn't to be. How had he been so careless? How could he just _assume_ the boy was too broken to escape?

And Larry's prayers were answered.

As Sam was nearing the edge of the parking lot, so near escape, a shadowed man unexpectedly jumped out beside him. The boy shrieked as the stranger took hold of him, grabbing him securely by the waist. Sam hissed, struggling weakly and uselessly against the man. Before he had been strong, muscular, and more than capable of taking this man down.

Yeah. Before.

Larry reached Sam and the man a few moments later, trying to hide how he was eagerly gasping for air.

The man now held Sam firmly to his chest, one arm around Sam's shoulders and the other around his slim waist. Sam continued fighting against the restraining arms and the man leaned down to whisper something into Sam's ear. Larry admired Sam's stance, and just like that Sam was limp in the stranger's arms, like something had simply shut down in Sam's head. He no longer protested or made any feeble attempts at escape, once again serving the grand purpose God had chosen for him. A slave.

"Damn, he was a feisty one," the stranger said, not even the darkness hiding his sinful smile. "I like it."

The familiarity of the man's voice hit him, and Larry tilted his head. "Joe?"

He nodded. "The one and only." He once again bent down to Sam's height, pressing their faces together. "Damn, I didn't know this kid was going to be _this _beautiful. All the more fun." He sighed contently before licking at the soft flesh of Sam's cheek. He felt Sam shiver in his grip, and Joe straightened delightedly.

"Ya got the money?" Larry asked.

Joe nodded, his head tipping toward the bar. "Yeah, but I left it with my friend, Gary. He's the bartender, you see? I'l go get it from him." He threw a hand over his shoulder, already heading toward Ol' Billy Brew.

Larry huffed, his stubby legs having difficulty keeping up with the fast pace Joe set himself to, dragging Sam along effortlessly.

_He's probably doing that on purpose. The bastard._

Mr. Browley sifted lethargically through the town newspaper, his coffee cold and his back aching from the rigid, almost uncomfortable stool. For the past thirty years he'd come to this place every day, sitting in the same far away and isolated booth, and he'd be damned if he stopped now.

Though, he had to admit that it used to be much better tidied, the floors sparkling fantastically and all beer stains removed within a certain standard.

He looked around the old bar, his eyes thinly veiled with sadness at its now hideous settings. The wallpaper was chipping horribly, long pieces of brown hanging adrift, and it now served as a horrible disguise to cover the rotting, corroding wood beneath. The floors were covered in wretched vomit and beer and the music nowadays only consisted of incoherent words spoken in high-pitched, screaming voices.

He sighed, realizing he was much too old for this. But thankfully only a few people lingered in the rundown bar.

He turned the page of the shoddy newspaper, coming upon the one article he ever brought himself to read these days.

It was all he could think about now.

He read the article thoroughly, making sure each word was scrupulously noted.

When he realized it spoke of nearly the same thing as it had last week, he sighed, tossing the newspaper aside and sliding his glasses off the tip of his nose.

Where could Samuel Corvan possibly be?

The great investigation for the boy had ended weeks ago, the townspeople coming to the realization that the boy's whereabouts would never be discovered. Now only Mr. Browley and his wife had continued to search relentlessly for the missing child. Every day after his classes were taught, he would drive around potential streets and buildings, even check the adjacent towns for people who may have crossed the boy's path.

He sighed again, rubbing his thumb and forefinger to his nose tiredly.

"Another coffee?"

Mr. Browley looked up to find Gary standing beside his booth, his eyes on him.

"Yes, please."

Gary nodded, his tattooed and pierced body moving to the coffee machine. The old professor watched the thick-muscled man pour the beverage, wondering how any person could willingly do that to their body.

_I guess I'll never understand the youths. _

Moments later and Gary was moving around the bar to set his steaming coffee in front of him on the table, the hand that stretched out tattooed with a bloodied dagger. Mr. Browley nodded his thanks.

Another half hour, forgotten in the corner of the room, and a bell rang behind Mr. Browley, indicating another customer, and the professor took another sip of his lukewarm coffee, almost enjoying the caffeine as it slid down his throat, despite it's poor taste and cool temperature.

He looked to his right, absently watching two men of drastically varying sizes walk into the Ol' Billy Brewery, each sitting at a stool in front of Gary. Mr. Browley's eyebrow rose. Now that the two men were seated, a thin boy was uncovered from in between the men, once in hiding and now sitting wordlessly beside the two, head down.

And then it hit him.

Mr. Browley nearly choked on his coffee, his mouth sputtering drops of cool liquid as he set the cup down with a now spastic hand, almost dropping it. He grabbed a napkin and threw it over his mouth to disguise his coughs, the back of his mind instantly understanding this wasn't something he was supposed to be witnessing.

With shaky hands, Mr. Browley reached into his jacket pocket and got out his phone. Flipping it open, he was fully prepared to dial 911 before pausing. Would the men be able to hear him?

The two men held a mild, pleasant conversation with the bartender, each cracking a few jokes to one another, and the old professor couldn't help but feel a shot of betrayal at Gary's wickedness.

But this was by far the lesser concern in Mr. Browley's head at that moment. He watched Sam, _Sam Corvan, for crying out loud, _and almost started crying right there in the dilapidated bar. The boy he had grown to feel so fondly for, the boy that made his classroom experience more interactive and interesting than any other student had done in his thirty years of teaching, now sat on a stool not thirty yards away. A lone tear fell down the professor's cheek.

This is what the boy has been reduced to.

Sam Winchester looked hollowed out, depleted of energy and maybe even life itself. His arms and legs were fully covered, and the professor wondered if there were any injuries hiding beneath them.

Mr. Browley frantically considered his options. If he called anyone and actually _spoke, _the men at the bar could easily hear him. If he didn't call anyone and just sat around watching it play out, Samuel could end up in a much worse predicament than he was now.

The professor cursed the world.

An idea clicked in the man's head then, and from that day on he'd never disrespect the youth and their wild technology. He sifted through his contacts, coming upon his wife's cell. As quickly as his aging fingers could perform, he typed "at ol billy brew, sams here, call 911" and sent the message.

The three men bantered unknowingly with one another, laughing and enjoying beer together. Mr. Browley watched in anger, each one occasionally poking at or jabbing Samuel, the boy obviously not enjoying the attention or ill-treatment, his face scrunched in grief as he sat there, mute.

A good ten minutes later and it appeared the thin, tall one was ready to depart. Mr. Browley sunk lower in his seat, beginning a mantra of _no, please no, no no no. _The police weren't _here_ yet, damn it.

The man stepped off the stool and held his hand out to Gary, as if waiting for something. Gary nodded, laughed, and Mr. Browley sat boggled as the man slapped an entire wad of cash in the man's expectant palm. A moment later and it was handed to the eager large man beside him, counting the money with avaricious eyes.

Loud, whirling sirens were heard just outside of Ol' Billy Brew, and all of the men except Sam spun in the direction of the noise, Gary jumping over the bar to look frantically out the windows.

"Oh shit, oh fucking _shit!"_

The three scrambled for the back exit, grabbing Sam and the few other, essential belongings of theirs, but they still weren't fast enough.

The door to the bar burst open from the heave of an armed officer, and Mr. Browley was surprised to see what looked like genuine professionals filing into the room. "Stop where you are and drop your weapons!" Multiple other officers followed behind him, each armed and guns trained in the mens' direction.

"Do it!" the leading officer barked again, and the three men carefully put their guns on the floor, kicking them slowly aside before raising their hands high above their head.

Immediately, the officers swarmed the three men, throwing them to the ground and frisking them intrusively for any hidden weapons.

"You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions. Anything you do say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future." The leading officer cuffed the fat man's hands tightly behind his back. "If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. Do you understand?" The man did not respond, and the officer shook him fiercely. "Do you _understand?" _

The large man nodded feverishly, anger written on his face. "Yes, I _understand_," he hissed, mimicking the other man.

The Miranda Rights were repeated two more times for the other men, both being manhandled viciously into cooperation.

Mr. Browley watched silently before taking a deep breath, _I can do this._ He turned in Sam's direction and walked toward him, the boy still standing in the same position with the same expression as he had when the cops arrived. The boy was watching the three men, almost unfazed and only slightly confused. _He almost signed his own death sentence and now that he's okay it bewilders him. _The professor stood sadly and silently by Sam, who still didn't seem to recognize his presence.

Sam turned then, his head moving slowly in Mr. Browley's direction, watching him.

Mr. Browley almost gasped.

Those eyes.

He stumbled back onto one of the slightly unsteady stools, his hand thankfully finding purchase on the counter. The boy watched his wobbling staggers, and if Mr. Browley didn't know any better it would look like the boy was dead. If the boy hadn't been standing, or doing the sporadic blinking, he would be cuddling the thin boy into his arms and shouting, crying, for the boy's passing.

Mr. Browley put a hand over his mouth to withhold the sobs. They wouldn't help him now.

But what would?

The man stood there feeling like an ant under a magnifying glass, watching Sam watch him. His eyes held no recognition, and Mr. Browley cleared his throat nervously, pulling at his collar. "So, uhh, you don't remember me, do you—".

"I know who you are."

The professor nodded, rocking back on his feet to control the tremors. Sam turned his body ever-so-slightly in the direction of the door, and the man felt like he was losing the boy's attention, like he was readying himself to leave.

"Where's your family, Samuel?"

Sam continued his empty stare, and Mr. Browley wasn't sure if he didn't hear him or didn't care.

After long moments of thick silence, Sam shrugged. "Not here, I guess."

Mr. Browley nodded again. From the corner of his eye he could see one of the officers taking a few notes, listening to Sam. The professor tried again. "Yes, but do you know where they could be? They didn't leave you here all alone, did they?"

This time Sam didn't respond, his eyes firmly staring into Mr. Browley's, watching him watch him, but there was a small twitch that shook him that told Mr. Browley something he really didn't have the strength to understand. How can a family just _leave_ a teenager boy in a seedy motel, alone, for _months?_

The man tugged at his collar again, unnerved at the boy's emptiness. He used to be so vibrant, so full of knowledge, but now it appeared the boy was just a shell.

What could have happened to him?

Looking into the boy's eyes was like looking into a tornado. Tempestuous, uncontrollable, and deadly. There was so much agonizing pain in those deep eyes, as if all the loneliness and torment had amassed into one big orb of pain and violently threw itself into Sam, leaving him scarred forever and without a cure.

Mr. Browley came out of his stupor when he felt a cold liquid suddenly drip down his cheek, and it took him several moments to recognize it was a tear. He wiped it away quickly, doing his best to school his features.

The officer took that as a go-ahead and went to stand beside Sam, speaking gently to what he assumed should be a traumatized boy. "Hi, I'm Officer Bryant," he held a hand out for Sam, smiling reassuringly. A few seconds later of no response and the smile faded and he put his hand back to his side, somewhat hurt. He shook it off. "What's your name, kid?" he asked, businesslike with pen and paper in hand."

Sam blinked slowly. "Sam Corvan."

The officer jotted it down before turning his gaze to the professor questioningly.

"Dr. James Browley, sir," he said, shaking hands with the officer. "The one who called you all. Thanks so much for coming."

The officer nodded politely, then once again rotated conversation back to Sam. "Alright, Mr. Corvan, can you explain to me what happened after your disappearance and your connection to Larry Foreman, Joe Blake, and Gary Howard?"

Mr. Browley's eyes widened, staring intently at Sam for the answers he'd been yearning to hear for so long.

Sam finally seemed to have a bit of emotion, his lips in a thin line and eyes downcast, not so much displaying shame but mere displeasure at the situation. Mr. Browley fought the urge to bend over and get a better view of Sam's face, but kept himself upright as he waited breathlessly for a response.

"I…" Sam licked his lips. "My brother and father went on a quick business trip awhile back—"

"Before or after you disappeared?"

"Before." Sam noticed his own slouched back and inherently straightened, trying to hide his fear and uncertainty. "They weren't supposed to be gone long, just a day or two." He shrugged. "I don't know what happened to them, where they are. Hell, they're probably dead." Sam bit his bottom lip hard, allowing his long hair to fall into his eyes.

Officer Bryant nodded sympathetically. "Don't worry, kid, we'll find him. Why don't you finish telling your story first?"

Sam sighed deeply, his chest filling with deep humiliation he'd grown long used to. "After my brother and father left, I stayed in a motel. The manager," Sam paused. "Larry, he uhh…he kept following me, trying to create conversations with me." He shook his head, shrugging his shoulders lightly. "I thought it was odd behavior, but I didn't think…"

Sam sighed and scratched at the back of his head, ready to be done with this damn conversation. "He raped me."

Both the officer and professor looked at the boy with wide, surprised eyes before filling with dreaded comprehension. The officer's pen had stilled, a word only half-written on the paper. Mr. Browley threw a hand over his mouth in horror and was barely able to turn away before vomiting forcefully onto the floor, his dinner leaving him in jerking upheavals.

The officer, obviously the more composed of the two, kept his eyes on Sam, weighing the boy's too thin body, heavy, tired eyes, grim mouth, and too pale skin. He didn't like what he saw.

He finished writing his sentence before looking back at Sam. "How many times did Larry Foreman rape you, Sam?"

Sam looked down, hair falling in his eyes. "A lot, every day. Sometimes he'd have to work part of the day, but he'd always come back. He'd make his money then he'd come back and visit his fuck toy." Sam shrugged as if it didn't really matter to anyone.

Officer Bryant blinked away tears and turned away as he listened to the professor begin the regurgitating process once more. A tear fell from his lower lid, and he quickly wiped it away.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be."

Officer Bryant nodded, hating himself for not being able to help more.

"Kid, I'm so sorry. I, uhh, I gotta take you to the station."

"To fuck me?"

The officer shook his head wildly, hands held up innocently. "No, kid, nothing like that. Just to ask you a few questions, is all."

Sam shrugged as if it didn't matter either way and nodded, walking out the door wordlessly as he stepped into one of the police cars still left, shutting the door softly behind him.

Mr. Browley stood upright again, breathing hard and face slick with sweat and tears. The professor and officer exchanged brief glances.

"You're welcome to come to the station, Mr. Browley."

The professor nodded frantically, as if another bout of crying would give way, but he held it together as he followed Officer Bryant out of the bar.

Mr. Browley saw Susan Browley waiting beside his car, her thin hand dabbing at her watery eyes. He left the officer's side and hurriedly ran to her, pulling her tight against his body. He sighed, taking in her sweet perfume and vanilla shampoo.

She released him at last, looking into his eyes. "What happened?"

The professor licked his lips, averting his eyes before turning back to her. "I'll explain on the way."

Officer Bryant made his way to the police car and slid in beside the boy, watching from the rear-view mirror as the professor and his wife rushed into their car, revving up the engine as they followed behind the officer.

Bryant took a quick glance to the passenger seat, his gaze falling on Sam's still and slumped position. The kid wasn't asleep despite how worn his body looked, just staring out the window in some sort of daze.

He wondered what Sam was thinking of, and how many nightmares it would soon bring him.

**_OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO_**

**Well there you go, if it's worth it throw in a review if you can. If not, don't worry about it, and hopefully I'll do better next time. **

**The rape and violently grotesque stuff is over...for now. Haha, it hasn't been entirely decided on whether there should be another Sammy/Larry moment, but despite the future lack of sexual graphics it's still pretty vicious. In my opinion, at least; it takes quite a bit of a different turn at this point. Hm..probably should've labeled it AU.**

**Hope you all are having a good day. Until next time.**


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you all for the kind reviews! I'm glad to hear your all enjoying it, so hopefully this next chapter will be just as satisfying! It's a bit short, but I don't want to get into my next section quite yet. I'll try and make the next chapter longer.

Also, just as a clarification, each time reference I set is an add on to the previous one. Just in case there was any confusion.

ENJOY

_OOOOOOOOOOOOOO_

**4 Days Later**

Officer Bryant sighed, his thumb and finger pressing hard against his temples. "Listen, son, I called you here because…," he sighed again, "well, we have a bit of a problem."

Sam continued sitting silently in the chair in front of the officer's desk, watching the man disinterestedly as if he had somewhere better to be.

He looked down at his arm sleeves in frustration as his fingers found their way under the thin material. Why was he so itchy? This damn well used to be his favorite hoodie, but now it was suddenly repulsive to him? He tried to ignore his body's reaction to clothes, only scratching at the thin skin of his arms when it was completely unbearable.

Like now.

"Son?"

Sam looked up to the officer, irritable. "What?" His eyes grew into small slits filled with sarcasm. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I interrupt you?"

Officer Bryant's eyebrows lifted, dumfounded at the usually quiet and polite boy in front of him. He coughed into his hand, understanding it was probably due to the poor boy's stress and pain. He deserved more margins for error than anyone could offer.

The officer watched soundlessly for a moment as Sam took another scan of his small office, his gaze once again lingering on the cross on the wall pinned above Officer Bryant's head.

Sam pointed to it with a finger. "That what you believe in?" Not condemning, just curious. Officer Bryant nodded.

"Been a Catholic all my life. Always will be."

Sam nodded, in thought. "Tell me," he said after a moment, his head resting under one hand. "Do you think God loves us all equally, even if we've done wrong?"

After a moment of stunned silence, the officer nodded vigorously to recover lost time, his heart tearing in half at Sam's broken words.

But he couldn't help but realize that finally, _finally,_ there was a way to help Sam cope with his traumatic experience. Sam's feelings about himself must be muddled, confused, angry, and his self-confidence couldn't be much better. His parents were missing, probably dead, and it was Officer Bryant's duty to keep him safe and healthy. Similarly, it was his personal duty to set Sam on the right path again, the path to righteousness and self-renewal.

That, at least, was something he could easily do for Sam Corvan.

"Of course, boy, God loves us all equally, no matter what wrong we may have committed or what wrong we've suffered through."

Sam nodded, and Officer Bryant realized the boy was genuinely listening to what he was saying. Relief flooded through the officer. _Maybe I can finally fix the damage he's suffered through._ Officer Bryant smiled to himself at the thought.

"No matter what?"

The officer nodded. "No matter what."

Sam watched the officer for a long moment, reading him. After the analysis, Sam spoke, "Then what's the point?"

Officer Bryant tilted his head in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

Sam shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't know, the point of _living. _What's the point if you already grow up having God's approval? What's the point of being a good little boy and doing as your told if God loves you anyway? Shouldn't you earn it? What's the point of keeping people safe if God will just create more of the same anyway? What's the point of holding in your exotic, sexual urges if God won't judge you for it?"

Officer Bryant froze, his eyes darting from Sam's heated gaze to stare at a corner of the room. "Well, son, God works in mysterious ways, and God _does_ judge us at the end of our time—."

Sam's eyebrows drew to a "V" in deep consideration, his gaze detached and distant. "Larry Foreman had it right all along. If you can't get in trouble for fucking little boys, then what's the point of restraining yourself from a little fun?"

Officer Bryant's sight was tear-filled and watery, and he wiped hastily at his eyes. Not even eight years of training could have prepared him for something like this.

"Son, I…I…" What was he supposed to say? He wiped at the accumulating sweat on his neck, his hand coming back wet and slick.

Sam spoke calmly. "Anyway, back to what you were saying?"

Officer Bryant looked at Sam, perplexed and, for the first time in his long career, he questioned if he had the courage and strength to finish solving this case. "What?"

"You were about to tell me the bad news. Hit me with it."

Officer Bryant was still mystified for several long seconds before it clicked, and he didn't think he had the heart to say it after everything Sam admitted to believing.

But he had a job to do. The officer nodded stiffly, watching absently as Sam scratched ceaselessly at his arms, red marks trailing through the pallid skin. He looked back up to meet Sam's gaze, his tortured mind still relaying the boy's previous words. "Yes, as I was saying, we have…a bit of a problem."

"Mhmm."

Officer Bryant sighed loudly. "We don't…we don't have enough real _evidence _to convict Larry Foreman of anything."

Sam's eyebrows went up. "What?" His legs, initially leaned up on top of the desk, hit the floor with surprising volume, considering how thin the boy was. He shot up onto his feet, his hands pressed hard against the wooden desk. "Surely you can find _something_ on him."

Officer Bryant shook his head sadly, his heart breaking. "All we have is a testimony from you. We had Larry Foreman's motel searched. We, uhh…" He cleared his throat, cheeks red with embarrassment and lingering horror. "We found his…toys, and there was semen on the bed, but that's not enough to convict him of rape." He looked the boy in the eyes. "I'm sorry, son, but we're going to have to take this to court."

Sam gulped, eyes wide, his mind a whirlwind of intense, deafening thoughts, each vying for dominance over the other. Court? He had to go to court?

Sam sat slowly back into his chair, his hands still in their same position on the table. "Is that…" He licked his lips. "Is that really necessary?" He looked into Officer Bryant's eyes, searching for leniency. "Surely we can find another solution." Sam shook his head defiantly as he once again stood, his sensitive, slightly enflamed arms going unnoticed. "I don't…" He squeezed his eyes tightly, and the officer waited with baited breath for him to continue. "I don't want to deal with this anymore. Fuck, I'm so _tired."_ He leaned harder against the desk, his knees suddenly giving out as he fell roughly to the floor, his elbows weighing heavily on the desk. He seemed unaware of his moment of weakness, one hand coming up to rub roughly at his face and through his bangs. "I can't keep doing this. I don't care what happens to Larry." He sniffed. "I just want to go home."

Officer Bryant watched in stunned guilt, his eyes wide and mouth hanging open in abrupt horror. Why couldn't he better understand this hurting boy in front of him? Understand how _painful _this must be for him so he could make it better?

He stood from his office chair and walked around his desk to stand beside the kneeling boy. He put a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder and lightly patted it, unsure if he should be relieved or worried that Sam didn't flinch from his touch. "I'm going to make this better, son, I promise. I'm going to save you." _From yourself_, Officer Bryant added silently.

Sam's voice, muffled from his itchy hoodie sleeve, replied, "You can't save someone from something they already died from."

_0o0o0_

Dean and John lie carelessly beside one another, limbs hanging loosely on the cold floor and both heads and backs leaning against the wall. They had no energy left, the very smallest of portions for meals leaving them without strength and hopeless of finding escape.

The demon entered the spacious room, and, aside from small glares, neither Winchester reacted outwardly to his presence.

He smirked, admiring his work, and bent down beside the two. He mockingly tugged at the chain keeping them in place, "I see you two are still hanging around." He sighed contently, pushing back off his heels to land flat on his ass in front of the two. "Want to watch little Sammy again? A Winchester sequel?" he asked wagging his eyebrows.

Both Dean and John hissed at his jeers. Dean's eyes brimmed with tears.

John turned away, sneering. "We wouldn't believe it anyway, you son of a bitch."

Dean hastily wiped at his eyes, and the demon could easily determine where Dean stood on the matter. The big and mighty John Winchester may think he's too powerful to believe his "false" visions, but his son's is a bit different. Not many months ago, Dean had seen the truth on what was happening to poor Sammy.

Maybe John would believe if he saw the same thing.

The demon looked at John pensively, his eyebrows curled down. "Something tells me you didn't believe Dean those several weeks ago."

"About what, you bastard?"

The demon gave him an obvious look. "About little Sammy's rape, of course."

John flinched, looking away quickly. "I don't believe it, not one bit."

The demon nodded, scooting an inch closer to the elder Winchester. "And is that because you don't want to, or you can't?"

John turned back to the demon, not understanding. "What do you mean?"

The demon shrugged. "What I mean is—can you physically accept your son was raped?" He shrugged again, more dramatically. "Because really, he _is _a Winchester, after all."

Before the demon could react he was met with a handful of fist and roughly slapped into the cold floor.

"How fucking _dare_ you!" John growled, crawling purposefully toward the demon, preparing another punch. The demon scooted back frantically, just in time to dodge another attack as he reached out of the range of John's limited movement. John shoved hard against his chains in the demon's direction, his veins pulsing in barely suppressed rage.

Dean hurriedly pushed his father back, tears streaming ceaselessly as he spoke, "Dad, you have to stop. This isn't helping anything."

"Yeah?" John responded harshly. "And what _will_?"

Dean stayed silent, unsure of the answer. In response, he wordlessly pushed his father back to lean against the wall.

The demon smiled smugly as he got back into sitting position, nursing his bleeding bottom lips. "Feisty, I see." He chuckled maliciously. "Just like Sammy."

John struggled against Dean's grip, not quite as fierce as it used to be due to the weakness and frailty of malnourishment.

The demon's smirk widened, his hands already reaching out for them. "I think I should show you two how easy this life is compared to little Sammy's. Maybe then you'll show me some respect."

Two fingers collided into Dean and John's foreheads, their minds whirring and unable to struggle as they felt images being seared into their brains. Their bodies went limp with dread as they watched the horror show.

_The whip fell down hard onto the small of Sam's back, the sensitive flesh ripped off in huge chunks as the whip slammed back down onto the small boy. _

_Sam groaned, his wrists tied firmly to the headboard of the bed and his body bent over vulnerably. The whip hit him, harder this time, and Sam's screamed against the tape around his mouth, his voice silent and muffled._

_"This what you want? This what you want for _disobeying me?" _Larry asked into Sam's ear before lashing out again, slicing easily through the thin skin._

_The clock on the bedside table began to speed up, quickly, as a symbolism of the passing of time. An hour after the initial time and the abuse finally came to a cease as Larry threw the whip tiredly across the small motel room. Sam's back was covered in both dried and fresh blood, the red, viscous liquid dripping down the small of his back and the curve of his ass. Larry grabbed at it, one cheek fitting perfectly into the palm of his hand. He smirked, licking at the blood on Sam's back as both hands squeezed painfully._

_"Hope you learned your lesson, boy," he whispered into Sam's ear as he released the boy's ass, instead meticulously aligning himself in front of Sam before shoving into him mercilessly._

John whimpered as the vision came to a close, and he could tell the demon was saying something, something important, maybe what exactly Sam's punishment was _for,_ but all he could think about was that pervert having his sick hands on his baby boy. His son was suffering the worst kind of abuse, but…where was John?

The demon smirked at their palpable devastation. "I hope you two enjoyed the show. Don't worry about it, good pals, that sequel was on me. My treat."

With a snap of his fingers, he vanished, leaving both Winchesters weeping in his absence.

_0o0o0o0_

**2 Months Later**

Dean awoke in a daze, his eyelashes brushing against the decaying grass beneath him. He grunted, his head throbbing in surprisingly astounding pain. He reached a hand out to lightly touch his pounding head. He brought the hand back in front of his face and, seeing no blood, immediately dismissed the pain.

He lifted his head from the dirty grass, his eyes squinting to see through the darkness. He turned his head around in all directions, the back of his mind vaguely realizing he was missing something. A muscular body lay still beside him, and Dean slowly turned to lie on his back, his muscles locked from lack of use. He gathered his thoughts then, in one breath, heaved himself from the ground and into sitting position. He sighed with relief at the small victory then turned to the body beside him. Something clicked in his head and immediately recognized the familiar figure.

He got onto his knees and quickly crawled over to his father and, in one swift motion, turned the older man onto his back.

He poked at the man, slapping lightly at his face. "Dad? Dad, wake up." After several more moments the attempt grew into another victory as John groggily arose. He wiped at his eyes, blinked rapidly, then turned to find Dean kneeling beside him.

He looked at his son in confusion. "Wh…What?"

Dean wished he had an answer, but could only respond with a shake of his head. "I have no idea."

John's eyes suddenly drew to sharp, angry slits as he wordlessly stared at a point passed Dean's shoulder. Dean turned around quickly, his hand automatically searching for a weapon that wasn't there.

He almost gasped at the presence of the demon, _the _demon.

He did hiss, though. Loudly.

The demon held a hand out. "Now, now, do try to stay calm."

Dean took a step forward, his hands clenched in tight fists. "Where the hell are we? What have you done?"

The demon's eyes widened, his smile broadening. "What have I _done? _Why, I've saved you from your captivity. You should be grateful." He stuck a hand in his pocket and both Winchesters intrinsically backed up, prepared for a lethal device to come soaring out. They were surprised, however, when the only device was a small, silver one tossed to Dean.

His phone.

Dean looked at it strangely, not understanding. What did this mean? Why was this _demon_ being so kind?

Was it a trap?

Dean gulped. "What…what did you mean by _save _us? You purposely freed us from _your _prison?"

The demon nodded, pleased with himself. "Well, I didn't want to _harm_ you_. _Why do you think I treated you so well?" Dean rolled his eyes; the demon ignored it._ "_You had merely been an obstacle that I needed to overcome. Now that that's over, you're free to go."

Dean watched the demon skeptically. "What do you mean 'obstacle'?" His eye twitched, and he growled out, "What are you planning, you bastard?"

The demon shrugged. "Nothing important yet, merely preparation for the future. Either way, Sammy's not getting saved any sooner. Don't you want to see him, Deano?"

Whether the man purposely changed the subject or the two topics were in someway related, Dean didn't know, but it obtained the desired effect as his eyes filled with unexplainable fury, his thoughts dark and lethal. "Where is Sam, you bastard? _Tell me._"

The demon smirked. "What, you think _I _have him? Deano, come on now, don't you think you would have _seen_ Sam during all those months if he were there?" He shook his head. "No, he's still where he's always been." At both Dean and John's questioning gaze, he continued, "the motel".

Dean and John looked at each other inquisitively. It had been so long, _so long_, since they'd seen little Sammy.

But then it all came back to them, a whirring, horrible flashback consuming them, and both Winchesters felt like they were drowning. How long had they been gone, anyway? Dean clenched his hands into tight fists, his eyes shut firmly out of pure rage.

"Why?" Dean asked harshly.

The demon played innocent. "Why what?"

He hissed. "Why _take us_ just to let us sit around and do _nothing?_" Dean's hand grew tight over the silver phone, and for a second the oldest Winchester thought he'd break it. "Was there not some fucking purpose?"

The demon laughed. "Oh, of course there was a reason, Deano. Why else would I do it? Well, besides that it was _such _fun to watch. You see, I needed to test out Sammy's ability to cope without his little family there to save the day, and well," his smirk widened, "a certain someone very kindly presented that opportunity to me; I just couldn't pass it up. But don't worry, little Sammy passed with flying colors. _Splendid_ job, I assure you." He smirked, licking his lips once, twice. "For the most part." Before either Winchester could respond, the demon held up a waving hand. "As much as I've enjoyed chatting with you, I'm afraid I have other business to attend." He smirked. "Good luck finding little Sammy. Ta-ta." And he was gone.

Dean spun around in astonishment. "Dad, what do we do now? How can we get to Sam?"

John shrugged, but seemed to know what he was doing nonetheless, already beginning to stride surely through the grass. "We can find a road somewhere, hitchhike our way back."

Dean nodded adamantly, determined. They were going to get Sammy back.

_0o0o0o0_

Mr. Browley anxiously straightened Sam's tie for what seemed like the fifth time, breathing in deeply to keep in his capricious, overwhelming emotions free from roaming his face.

"Okay, Samuel, I…I know you're nervous, but just," Mr. Browley took another long breath, his hands shaking lightly against Sam's chest. "Just be honest and answers the questions to the best of your knowledge. If you don't know something, admit to it. Judge Lionel Hathorne is…well, he's very good at what he does." He licked his lips nervously. "Stick to what we talked about, alright? This is going to be…a very scary experience, but don't let it intimidate you. If we play our cards right, we'll...we'll." He pulled at his own tie, perspiration beginning to seep through his collar. "We'll be okay." he said finally, nodding, as if finalizing it in stone by agreeing with himself. He patted Sam lightly on the shoulder. "You'll do great."

Sam nodded jerkily in hopeful agreement, his former professor's nervous actions making him just as uneasy. They'd been going over the legal court procedures for…too long. Much too long.

But still he wasn't ready.

Sam rubbed a palm roughly against his eye, his lack of sleep affecting him more than he'd like to admit.

He used his fingers to self-consciously comb through his too-long brown hair, uncertain if he'd missed any knots. He then straightened his tie again, making sure it was exactly perpendicular to the hardwood floor beneath him.

He sighed nervously, his hands disobeying his mind as they moved onto his shirt, searching for any overlooked wrinkles in the nice, plaid dress shirt Mr. Browley had bought for him.

He'd never owned such a nice shirt before.

Sam began to recognize his reactions to stress, and was instantly worried the floodgates would arrive in full. Ever since he had been rescued from Larry Foreman, not once had Sam cried; there was no reason to. But now…

A pair of aged hands grabbed hold of his own and pulled them away from his spotless shirt. Sam looked up to his Mr. Browley watching him, thick tears in his eyes.

"Listen, Samuel—," Mr. Browley began.

"Thank you for the shirt, Mr. Browley. I really appreciate it."

Mr. Browley shook his head, smiling the best smile he could achieve under the circumstances. "It's no problem, Sam, not at all—."

"Is it cotton?"

"Yes, son, it is, but—."

"I'll pay you back as soon as I can, I promise."

"No no, there is absolutely no need—."

"How much did it cost, sir? So I can have some sort of price range. I really—."

Mr. Browley gripped Sam by the shoulders and shook him loosely, cutting him off mid-sentence. He pulled the thin boy and crushed him against his body, cupping Sam's head. After several long, silent moments, Mr. Browley's eyes widened as Sam's own arms snaked timidly around his waist, accepting the hug. The professor's eyes brimmed with tears as he said, "You'll do fine, Sam, I promise." A tear fell, and he hastily wiped at the excess water.

Sam shook his head sluggishly into Mr. Browley's chest. "I'm…I'm not ready. I can't do this."

Mr. Browley unwrapped his arms from Sam, keeping one hand placed comfortingly on Sam's head. "You'll be perfect, Sam, I know it."


	5. Chapter 5

**Greetings once again! So there is supposed to be a huge intermission (I'm talking days or weeks) between pleading the charge and the witnesses being brought out, but I decided I'd clump it altogether to keep it more orderly…and less boring.  
I will also point out I am not doing the actual courtroom procedures justice. A friend personally requested a certain way, and who am I to decline:)  
That being said! If you see inaccuracies within this court scene please recognize it is intentional. It also induces more Sammy angst, and that's always fun.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

"Stand now for Judge Hathorne's appearance."

The aforementioned Judge Hathorne entered the courtroom and all the audience stood quickly at his arrival, his piercing dark eyes intimidating and watchful.

He was younger than Sam was expecting, maybe late twentys, the man's short hair as black as his robe. His cheekbones were high, making him look more daunting, and he listened as Officer Bryant, sitting beside him, cursed almost inaudibly.

Sam turned to the man, his eyebrow raising him question.

The officer licked his lips, as if unsure he wanted to explain. But then, discreetly, Officer Bryant leaned in and whispered silently, "That's Lionel Hathorne's son, Michael Hathorne, the most ruthless piece of shit you can imagine." A pregnant pause. Officer Bryant licked his lips uneasily. "This is bad."

Judge Hathorne bowed to the audience, as was the obligatory instruction for judges, then sat at the head of the courtroom, his menacing gaze landing on the large crowd.

The court officer announced, "The Mock Court is now sitting," and the judge watched as the masses of people gradually take their seats.

"Larry Foreman, you are charged with kidnapping, sexual and aggravated assault, child abuse, attempted prostitution, and both statutory and aggravated rape. How do you plead to these charges?"

Larry smiled confidently. "Not guilty."

Sam took the smallest of glances toward the heavy man, surprised in realizing that Larry's redneck accent had vanished, being replaced with a sort of sophisticated speech and enlarged vocabulary. Sam wondered how long he had to practice to obtain such a voice.

_0o0o0o0_

"Your Honor, I would like to interrogate my supposed victim, the prosecution."

Judge Hathorne nodded after a moment. "I permit this. Go on."

A man in the last bench of the room stood, his face crunched in loathing as he pointed to the judge reproachfully. "That kid is a minor, you're not allowed to do that!"

Judge Hathorne just eyed the man apathetically, his face resting on his palm as he redirected his gaze briefly. "Bailiff David, please escort this man out of my courtroom. I do not wish to see him again."

The bailiff obediently stepped forward and walked down the isle to the last row. The man was watching in astonishment as the bailiff took hold of his arm, led him out of the bench, and pulled him out of sight.

Judge Hathorne brought the attention back to himself, turning to Larry. "Now, please continue, since we were so rudely interrupted."

"Yes, your Worship, thank you for the honor."

Sam's eyes widened in disbelief and utter terror. "Wha…?"

A low murmuring once again began to make itself known throughout the audience, the voices incredulous and astonished, many filled with disgust now that they understood the situation.

One man in the crowd shouted out, "What bullshit!" and another followed, "You can't possibly be serious?", but the defiant ones were discreetly hidden from sight this time, not as loud and abrupt as the punished man, and the judge could not discern who was guilty.

Judge Hathorne pounded the gavel hard onto the wood of the sound block. "_Silence!" _he bellowed, and an eerie silence followed, the once audacious people crawling back under their rocks. "I will not tolerate such insolent behavior in my courtroom. The next one of you to interrupt this case will be held in contempt." Judge Hathorne nodded to Larry Foreman. "Please, continue."

Larry Foreman smiled slyly, his heavy berth lifting from the chair at the table to position himself directly in front of the witness stand, where Sam had to sit.

Sam stood on shaky legs, wiping his sweaty hands down his black dress pants, also given to him by Mr. Browley. He looked back at the crowd to see his former professor in the second row, head bowed and hand in his eyes.

Sam turned back to see the bailiff waiting by the witness stand, Bible in hand. Sam walked up to the man, placing a hand on the book.

"Do you swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth so help you god?"

Sam nodded, a bead of sweat dribbling down his forehead. "I do."

The book was removed and the bailiff went to stand back in the corner of the room. Sam stiffly turned and took a seat at the witness stand, doing his best to keep his eyes off Judge Hathorne, Larry, and all the spectators.

He stared down at his hands.

Larry leaned against the stand as an act of intimidation, and Sam scooted further into his chair.

"Okay, Sam, let's start with something simple first. Can you please explain to the spectators exactly why we're here today?"

"I…I'm sorry?"

Larry exaggerated a huff and rolled his eyes. "What are you so rudely accusing me of?"

Sam looked away from the bulky man, his eyes betraying his mortification. To have to say it out loud…"I…you…". His gaze trailed to Mr. Browley, who offered up a small, reassuring smile, tears in his eyes. "You raped me," he said in a small voice.

Larry nodded thoughtfully, a hand to his chin in consideration. "And, just to clarify, what exactly do you _mean _by rape_?"_

Sam's mouth opened, horrified, and his lawyer, Mr. James Esq, stood, shouting, "Objection! I think both the audience and Sam are well-aware of the denotation of rape; it does not need to be explained to further our understanding on such knowledge." He sat back down, fixing his jacket angrily.

Judge Hathorne looked curiously at Larry, who responded convincingly, "Your Honor, I do not wish to badger the plaintiff, that is not my intention. I merely wish to ensure that we're all on the same page with this issue."

Judge Hathorne nodded. "Proceed."

Larry Foreman flipped through some pages in his hand. "One formal definition of rape, according to the authentic online site , is 'the unlawful compelling of a woman through physical force or duress to have sexual intercourse'." He flipped another page over, throwing a suddenly intense look at Sam. "As far as I'm aware you're not of the female variety." His gaze stayed on Sam's form another moment longer, almost in longing, then reverted back to the page, businesslike once more. "'Any act of sexual intercourse that is forced upon a person. An act of plunder, violent seizure, or abuse; despoliation. To seize, take, or carry off by force'." He looked back up from his list, his eyes on Sam questioningly. "So tell me, Samuel, which one of these fits your case? So we can better understand exactly what I'm being charged with."

"Objection! He's badgering the witness," Sam's lawyer yelled from his place.

"Overruled," Judge Hathorne said simply, dismissing him.

Sam swallowed. "I…" He licked his dry lips. "I…I think all of the above would apply."

Larry nodded. "Okay, can you please divulge a little bit further than that? In what way exactly did_ I, _the supposed criminal, have sexual relations with you_?"_

Sam swallowed hard, Larry's mocking, piercing eyes seeing through his shattering disguise of calm. "You…you can't be serious? Why does that even matter?"

"Answer the question," said Judge Hathorne coldly.

Sam sunk back into his chair, defeated. "You molested me—."

Larry motioned with a hand. "And by 'molest' you mean…?"

"You stroked my cock," Sam said bluntly, tears in his eyes. "You fingered me, stuck random objects up my ass for your personal entertainment—."

"For example?"

"Objection!" shouted the lawyer.

"Overruled," dismissed the judge once more, shifting in his seat.

Hushed voices carried throughout the courtroom.

Sam's turned away in evident shame, swallowing down his protest. "You…"

"You know what? Can you please stop saying 'you', as if I'm actually _guilty_ of something here?" Larry asked believably.

Sam's mouth widened abjectly in disbelief, speechless.

Larry shrugged, as if it were obvious.

Larry looked to Judge Hathorne, who clasped his fingers together and shifted his gaze to Sam. "Make no references to any one person while speaking of your…sexual endeavors. Just keep it brutally honest and to the point."

"Your Honor, is it really necessary for me to explain this? I feel like—."

Judge Hathorne's eyebrows curved sharply downward in sudden anger, livid, and for the first time in a short time Sam was scared for his life. "Well, of course you have to explain this, you twit. This is a courtroom, not a playground. We're going to get to the bottom of this matter and your small discomfort in talking about something a little embarrassing is neither a priority nor an indulgence of this courtroom. Do you understand me?"

Sam nodded, unable to speak.

"Now answer the question. Thoroughly."

Sam brushed at the moisture at his eye, ignoring the muted remarks of disapproval coming from the large crowd. "Umm…", he started, thinking of a way to use it in the grammatical format that was required of him. "A few things that were, uhh, used…inside of me were…pens, sometimes, uhh, pieces of food, broomsticks, you…I mean, I…I was occasionally thrust into the bedpost." He looked to Larry, then Judge Hathorne, ashamed. "Is that good enough?"

Larry nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, splendid." Judge Hathorne shifted in his seat.

"Next step," Larry said clearing his throat. "Take your shirt off."

Sam did a double-take. "What?"

"Please show the witnesses and Your Worship any potential injuries you may have on your person."

Sam swallowed hard, standing slowly to uncover his thin torso. Gasps echoed throughout the courtroom as they admired the myriad of marks, scars, and burns running all along his body.

Larry cleared his throat authoritatively, looking to the audience. "I'd like the spectators and Your Worship to note that Sam's scars appear entirely intentional and were not caused by an accident of any sort." Larry nodded to Sam. "Thank you, you can put your shirt back down."

He paced in front of the witness stand. "Alright, now, let's resume to the actual story," Larry said, "Can you please explain what happened on April 8, 1998, the date of your supposed kidnap?"

Sam swallowed hard, his eyes darting back to Mr. Browley.

_Just be honest and answers the questions to the best of your knowledge._

Sam licked his lips. "I had just gotten home after school—."

"Home?" Larry inquired accusingly. "Are you implying that rundown motel room was your _home?"_

Sam's mouth opened and closed wordlessly, his brain floundering for a response. "Well, it was a temporary home—."

"And how many 'temporary' homes would you say you have every year? On average?"

Sam repositioned himself in his seat and pulled nervously at his tie. "I…I don't see how this is relevant to the situation."

From the corner of his eye, Sam watched Larry turn to Judge Hathorne. "Judge, I assure you there's a reason for this."

He nodded, and looked to Sam harshly. "Answer the question, Mr. Corvan."

Sam nodded, beginning to scratch absently at his arms. "M-maybe eight or nine homes a year."

Larry put a finger to his chin in mock consideration. "Hmm…that's a lot of moving around, don't you think?"

Sam shrugged, feeling like an ant under a magnifying glass. "My dad has to move around a lot for work."

"Ahh…" Larry replied in thought, his face bright. "Speaking of your father, how was your relationship with him? Good? Bad?"

Sam shrugged, looking down at his hands. "It was fine."

Larry took a step forward, head tilting and mouth twitching upward. "Really? You don't seem so certain."

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "We fought sometimes, but…but it wasn't _bad. _Just the occasional disagreement over something trivial."

Larry let out a "hmm" sound, walking slowly toward the witness stand. "And, may I ask, where exactly _is _your father right now_?"_

Sam felt like a deer caught in headlights. "I…I…"

Larry put a hand to his ear and leaned in closer. "I'm sorry, what was that? I couldn't quite hear you."

Eyes brimming with tears, and he looked away in shame. "I…I don't know where he is."

Larry showed the triumph in his face. "Well, that's strange. When did you see him last?"

Sam wiped at a lone tear. "A…a few days before…"

"Before what?"

He looked at Larry this time, angry. "A few days b-before you took me."

"You mean," Larry waved a hand, "before you were taken?"

Sam huffed. "Yes, before I was taken."

Larry nodded, strolling absently beside the witness stand in consideration. "And where's your brother?" he said, making the display of flipping through papers. "This Dean Corvan. Where do you think he is exactly? Certainly you'd know something so simple."

Sam looked back at his hands. "I…"

Larry held up a finger in realization and slapped himself on the forehead. "Oh, I must be an _idiot. _Surely he'd be somewhere in the courtroom." He chuckled to himself, looking to the courtroom for confirmation. "I mean, after all, the man _is_ Sam's brother, and brothers look out for each other, always." He turned back to the witness stand, "Am I right, Sammy boy?"

Sam's eyes were wide with distraught and he could only offer a surprised whimper.

Larry accepted it and immediately turned to look back at the stupefied audience, holding a hand to his forehead in imitation of a search. "Dean Corvan, the loving brother of Samuel Corvan, will you please stand?"

Silence filled the room as everyone stayed seated, craning their heads wildly to find anyone trying to stand. All the spectators and members of the court were hunting for someone that wasn't there.

Sam put a hand to his face in humiliation, and inattentively watched as Mr. Browley quietly sobbed into his palm and Officer Bryant wiped tears from his eyes. His lawyer sat there, watching the scene unfold with sad eyes, unknowing of what to do.

Larry Foreman turned back to Sam, hands leaning heavily on the witness stand. "Sam, where is your brother?"

Sam shook his head, his voice barely a whisper. "I don't know."

"Where is your brother?"

"I don't know."

"_Where is your __brother?"_

Sam lost his voice. "I…I…"

Larry slammed his hands hard against the stand. "Where is your brother?"

"I don't _know!" _Sam let out harshly. "I don't know…," he said, letting his voice trail off_._

Sam's lawyer finally stood and exclaimed, "What does this have to do with anything, Mr. Foreman? Speak your purpose."

Larry pulled at his jacket regally, an arrogant smirk on his face. "What I am demonstrating, sir, is my innocence, that the real offenders that should be accused of Sam's kidnap and rape is not I," he pointed to Sam critically, "but _Dean and John Corvan."_

Sam's mouth fell open in horrified rage at the accusation and he found himself jumping to his feet, his vision blurry with unspilled tears. "How fucking _dare you. _My family would never do something so disgusting and repulsive. They're nothing like you. They would never tell me to lie down and play dead while they fucked me from behind. They would never bite at my nipples until they bled as if they were part of a meal. They would never shove a vibrator up my ass for pleasure when they had to go work." Sam's mouth twitched into a hideous leer, bordering on insanity. He thought he heard Mr. Browley throw up. "Remember that time when we played 'good cop, bad cop' and I had to suck that puny cock of yours? For the eighth time that day, mind you. Or what about when I'd shampoo your hair in the shower, then lick the soap off your filthy body when I was done?" Sam shook his head angrily. "My family would never do that to me, but _you_ did."

The crowd was in an uproar by then, shouts coming from every direction but not a single one distinguishable from the rest of the mass. Judge Hathorne's heavy gavel did nothing to diminish the mob's intensity, and only when the bailiff fired his rifle into the air did they establish some sort of resemblance to order.

Judge Hathorne continued smacking his gavel onto the sound block. "Order! Order! I demand order, goddamn it!"

When all the room had at last quieted, Larry Foreman laughed nervously, pulling at his collar and tie. "Getting a little hot in here, isn't it?" He coughed lightly, removing his jacket and placing it on the defense's table. He breathed deeply, running stubby fingers through his short hair. He chuckled again. "And, you know, just for the record, none of that was true."

Sam's eyes grew to small slits, but he said nothing on the subject. "Finish your questions."

Larry nodded. "Right." He walked back to the witness stand, not quite as enthusiastic and self-assured as he had appeared before. He leaned an elbow against the stand and put a hand to his hip, and the wood beneath him groaned lightly in response.

"Alright, Sam, let's back up a little bit. Can you please explain _exactly _what happened on April 8, 1998? No lies, pretty please."

Sam swallowed hard, his mind almost physically aching for a reaper to come claim him, or a wendigo to claw through his skull. What life was worth this?

"I was about to get into my room when you stopped me, told me you'd fix my microwave."

Larry Foreman lifted a disbelieving eyebrow, and Sam stopped, defenseless and confused. "Fixed the microwave, did I? And you're sure of this?"

Sam nodded timidly.

"Mr. Ralph," Larry said, waving to his own lawyer. "Please tell Sam here that the microwave in the room which he was occupying was neither broken nor damaged in any way."

Mr. Ralph put his glasses to the tip of his nose, reading through the lengthy document in front of him. "Yes, it says here that all kitchen appliances located in Room 2 were functional, particularly the microwave, which appeared new," he said, removing his glasses.

Sam looked to both men in frustration. "Then it's obvious."

"I'm sorry?"

"It's obvious that he," pointing accusingly at Larry, "bought a new microwave before anyone could find out. How can that not be glaringly palpable?"

"Hey!" Judge Hathorne said in annoyance, pounding his gavel. "Use words the general audience _understands." _He rolled his eyes, silently muttering, "moron".

The crowd began softly murmuring again, and Sam swallowed hard, resisting the urge to roll his eyes himself. "What I'm saying is that the microwave looked new because it _was _new. Mr. Foreman bought the microwave so that my testimony wouldn't seem legitimate."

Larry rolled his eyes. "Nonsense."

Judge Hathorne nodded in agreement, huffing and playing with a strand of his hair, shifting positions in his chair. "I'll say."

Larry smiled brightly at Sam.

Sam gulped, trying not to lose hope at the judge's apparent hatred for him. And what happened to the guns in their motel room? Did Larry hide those, too? He continued his story. "After Larry unsuccessfully fixed the microwave, he obsessed over my book where a kid gets raped. I didn't know what to think of it." He slapped his palm against his bangs. "I'm so stupid. After he left, I packed up and tried to leave, b…but, he wouldn't let me; he kept talking to me, trying to convince me not to leave. I, I…I felt uncomfortable, so I ran."

"And then?" Larry pressed.

"You shot me."

Larry's eyes grew wide, pointing a finger to his own chest. "I _shot you? Why, boy, I've never held a gun in my life."_

Sam's mouth went to object, but Larry turned back to his lawyer.

The glasses went back on the man's nose. "There was a thorough search for weapons and lethal devices within a 5-mile radius the week of Sam Corvan's reappearance." He looked up from his paper. "None were found."

Sam's heart broke, and tears spilled ceaselessly from his eyes. "That's not _true, _damn it! He shot me in the leg, I swear!"

Larry held up a hand. "Now—."

"No!" Sam came from around the witness stand and pulled up his pant's leg, revealing the scarred flesh of his left leg, a small, circular indention.

Larry came up closer to inspect the wound. "Son, that's not _necessarily _a gun wound at all. That could have been anything."

Sam shook his head in denial, his face clenched up in fear. "No, no…"

Larry put a hand to Sam's shoulder, and the boy flinched violently, jerking away from the touch. "Don't _touch me__."_

"Sit back down, Mr. Corvan, I'm not done with you yet."

"Oh my _God,"_ Sam cried out, both hands moving to clench fiercely at his hair. He bent at the waist, his breathing fast and shallow. "No, no, no…" One second later, he was removing his hands from his head and in another standing directly in front of Larry, his appearance intimidating despite his need to look up at the older man. "You want to know what happened next? You happened next, goddamn it." He turned to the crowd, arms spread out to their full length beside him. "I woke up tied to the fucking bed." Tears spilled down his cheeks incessantly, but he ignored them. "Every day I spent with Larry was the worst day of life, and…no one believes me." Sam moaned silently, helplessly, and just like that, his energy was fully spent. One knee gave out, then the other, and then he was kneeling on the floor in the center of the courtroom, his eyes spilling with tears. "He raped me, and now he's going to get away with it."

_0o0o0o0_

Mr. Browley dashed to the fallen boy, stumbling to his arthritic knees in a drunken rush, his gaze hazy and blurred. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder, feeling it flinch under his touch, something he hadn't done with him before.

The old professor sniffed loudly, speaking comforting words softly into Sam's ear, at a total loss of what to do. Sam's emotional health was deteriorating from this. Even if Larry Foreman was convicted, how helpful would it be to a scarred boy beyond help?

After a few more touching moments, Judge Hathorne visibly sighed and rose hastily, pounding his gavel on the sound block. "Well, it's evident we'll be taking a temporary leave," he said, already dismissing himself and walking vivaciously toward the exit. "We will be continuing this trial one week from now, 8:30." He waved and directed an odd, misplaced smile to the crowd, as if he were suddenly eager about something. Most of the spectators did not notice, their sole attention focused on the damaged boy on the floor. "Good day," he said anyway, and disappeared behind the door.

Mr. Browley looked up just as he was leaving, his eyebrows sliding downward in outrage. The judge, if Mr. Michael Hathorne could even be given such a prestigious title, was a disgrace to the judicial branch and should be immediately eliminated from the system. How could Lionel, one of the greatest judges in town, another part of the problem for Samuel.

A small crowd was beginning to surround Sam, somehow each individual understanding to allow the boy enough space for comfort. Tears were coming down his cheeks, but even with his everlasting trauma he appeared calm, at peace with his scarred life. He nodded thankfully to a few of the people trying to offer him a bottle of water, a hug, or a home, but held out a thin hand in declination. Mr. Browley watched sadly, wiping away a tear. These were people he could trust to protect Sam.

Mr. Browley immediately stood and exited through the same door Judge Hathorne did not moments ago, knowing the man's office was somewhere in this vicinity.

He strolled down the hall, looking at the labels on each door he passed and stopped when he came upon "Judge Hathorne" in gold letters.

Without permission, he grabbed the knob and burst through the entrance, unsure of what he'd find.

But it wasn't this he was expecting.

Judge Hathorn sat in the leather chair at his desk, the seat facing toward the door. The customary black robe he wore on-duty was drawn up to the waist, everything below nude and exposed, and his boxers bundled at his feet. His face was filled with that of ecstasy, as if in some state of bliss, and he moaned loudly as his hand continued thrusting rhythmically.

"Oh, yes, Sammy, _yes."_

Mr. Browley watched in horror and immediately turned back the way he came, slamming the door shut on his way out.

**2 Days Later**

Dean and John drove aimlessly around town, each and every male passerby given an intense stare down until determined to be someone other than Sam.

They had already checked the motel and surroundings areas and, though the entire building was empty, both Winchesters couldn't help but feel their youngest member was still around somewhere.

They couldn't bear to think otherwise.

John sighed. "Dean…we need to stop somewhere—."

Turning left at the streetlight, Dean snapped. "No, Dad, not until we've found Sam." He watched as a brown-haired boy walked energetically down the sidewalk adjacent to their temporarily stolen vehicle, a shoddy piece of navy blue metal, and Dean looked at him more closely.

Nope, not Sammy.

John sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Listen, I know you want to find Sam, we both do, but we can't proficiently look for him in the condition we're in, especially from the demon—."

"Dad, that was _days _ago!_"_

"And it had lasting effects," John said just as vehemently. "I'm just saying, Dean; we're tired, we're hungry, and we're damn well about to fall over."

Dean huffed resignedly, aggravated. "Fine, we'll get some lunch at McDonalds. _To go."_

_"Dean…"_

"What?" Dean snapped as he drove up to the fast food building. "Don't you remember what the demon said? It's driving me in-_fucking-_sane!," Dean said, eyes brimming with unshed tears. "Do you even _want _to find Sam_? _Because you're sure as hell not acting like it_."_

John just looked at his son with slit eyes, his voice venomous. "How dare you." He opened the door abruptly, and Dean slammed on brakes as his father got out of the car. Before shutting the door, John poked his head through. "We're going inside."

Dean exhaled in ultimate submission. "Yeah, yeah, lemme park."

_0o0o0_

Mr. Browley looked to Sam sitting quietly in the passenger seat. "You want something to eat, Samuel?"

Sam looked to the professor, smiled softly out of courtesy, and shook his head.

Mr. Browley licked his lips, throwing him a smile before turning his gaze back to the road. "I suppose I should re-phrase that question. What would you like to eat, Sam?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably in guilt and self-reproach. "Sir, you…you really don't have to do that. I…I haven't even paid you back for that nice shirt. And those pants..."

Mr. Browley shook his head obstinately, wagging a finger. "Na-ah. Those were a gift, Samuel. You're not paying me back for anything."

Sam nibbled on his bottom lip, unconvinced but trying to please. "Yes. Thank you, sir."

Mr. Browley nodded. He pointed to a building in front of them. "How does Bryan's Bar sound?"

Sam's heart skipped a beat. "A…a bar?"

Mr. Browley almost gasped, mentally hit himself as he graphically recalled the last time Sam went to a bar. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry, Samuel, what about a McDonalds? Would that be nice?"

Sam nodded, quietly replying, "That'll be fine, sir."

Mr. Browley turned back to Sam to make sure, but the boy's gaze was turned toward the passenger window, his soft, unblemished skin gleaming bright under the sun's rays.

Mr. Browley looked back to the road, hating himself, and turned into the driveway.

_0o0o0o0o0_

**Alright, there you go. So you think Sam and the rest of the family will be back together soon? Well, I sure hope so, they've been separated forever.**

**Also, I'm afraid we're nearing the part that hasn't exactly been written yet so the chapters may be getting just a smidge shorter from here. Not too bad, though, I assure you.  
Until next time!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Just a small note. It seems my previous chapter went italics CRAZY and I apologize for that. Not really sure what happened there, but it's fixed now and hopefully it wasn't too distracting.**

**I also want to point out there is a song by Disturbed called "Innocence" that can relate very well to this story. If you're interested in the rock/heavy metal genre you should definitely check it out. It's awesome.**

**Anyway, hope you enjoy the next chapter. Alas, the Winchesters finally reunite!**

**_0o0o0o0o_**

They got out of the old van, each shutting their respective doors before meeting up in the middle. Sam's hands were jammed deep into his hoodie pockets, the itchy material slightly more tolerable than before. Just a physical pain among other, more hideous, psychological pains.

Mr. Browley stepped forward ahead of Sam and only when he was opening the door was he suddenly unsure of himself. Maybe the boy would rather go in after him, instead of being the first to enter a potentially dangerous place. Thankfully, Sam made that decision for him, stopping a moment in uncertainty before determinedly passing through the doorstep.

Mr. Browley smiled at the small feat, translating it as one step closer to healing.

Against his will, the smile grew into a frown all too soon.

How was he going to tell Sam about Judge Hathorne?

The professor cursed himself. Why were his thoughts so cruel? Why couldn't he, just for one day, have peace?

Guilt tore through him at the mere thought. _Sam _deserved that peace if anyone did, and Mr. Browley couldn't give him that. He had to tell Samuel, and his lawyer, about Judge Hathorne's…sexual propensities, and figure out the next step.

And now was as good a time as any.

But the boy was standing in the middle of the walkway, and the professor stood silently for another second, letting Sam get his bearings. Long moments later and the professor was beginning to realize Sam wasn't planning to move at all. Mr. Browley was just barely able to press through and close the door behind him. "Sam…" he started then squeezed passed Sam to snag a look at his expression when there was no response. The boy was staring ahead of him with an expression Mr. Browley couldn't explain. It was grotesque to see on such a handsome face, the sharp agony cracking and shattering something deep inside the professor he didn't know existed. But not only was there agony, but shock. Absolute and utter shock.

Mr. Browley followed the boy's gaze, unsure if he even wanted to, and saw a table of two men eating unenthusiastically together, neither speaking nor full of vibrant emotion. In fact, they weren't full of emotion at all. They were just…there.

The pieces were oddly beginning to fall in place and his jaw dropped at the strong implications. The agonizing look on Sam's face broke something deep inside of Mr. Browley. He clasped Sam's forearm, just enough to hopefully get his attention. "Samuel, is that…is that your family?"

Sam continued to stand there, speechless, nodding slowly as if it couldn't possibly be true.

He took a step, a small one, then took another, bigger step. As expected, he did not grow in confidence as he neared his destination, but deflated. He swallowed hard, his mind searing and decaying from the inside thinking of all the horrific, terrifying ways this could end.

And there were oh, so many.

Finally, he was standing directly in front of the two Winchesters who, for their superior talent as hunters, should have been able to notice him by now, at least determine if he was a threat.

Have they even been hunting?

Sam groaned internally, now scratching wildly at the skin of his arm, like a small flesh-eater crawling around he couldn't get rid of. No, they probably quit the hunting business long ago. Just partying now.

Sam cleared his throat lightly, his arm tender and red.

Both eyes grew alight at nearly the exact same time, and their heads swiveled recklessly in Sam's direction. Dean, whose mouth was full of half-chewed burger, gasped, jumped to his feet in complete disbelief. "S-Sam?" he asked, is if it couldn't possibly be his only brother standing in front of him. Not a second passed before he was throwing his arms tightly around his baby brother, squeezing him to his chest. Sam jumped out of the unanticipated and not entirely welcome touch, holding his hands up in front of him.

Dean looked hurt, crushed, but said nothing on the subject. "Sam…" It felt so good to be able to say that name, say that name without feeling the crushing pit of emotions he always felt when Dean had been out looking for him. Tears rolled carelessly down his cheeks, and he tried to make them look like they came only from the joy of seeing his brother, not the hurt he felt of rejection.

John had jumped up as well and now looked Sam over for injuries, both happy and confused to see Sam without visible wounds.

Hell, maybe Sam was just partying all day while they were gone.

That train of thought triggered something unexpected from the great John Winchester. Anger. He hadn't seen his son nor known if he was even _alive_ for months, and Sam was probably making out with some chick and having a beer.

Something inside him unwaveringly told him Sam would _never _do that, never even consider it, that family was something to be cherished and always came first.

John ignored it.

He sniffed loudly, and he almost felt Sam visibly watching his change in thought. "So, Sammy, where've you been? Haven't seen you around in a while."

Sam nodded jerkily, "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

John looked into Sam's hazel-green eyes, taking a step forward. From the corner of his eye, he saw Dean try to intervene, but he pushed him back with a strong hand. "You're _sorry? _And that's all you have to say? You're sorry?"

Sam stood, paralyzed, "I…"

John laughed sardonically, throwing his hands up in the air. "Oh, great, he's _sorry._ This just makes _everything_ better."

Dean stepped in, "Dad, stop this—."

John shot a glare at Dean, and whatever he was going to say died in his mouth. John turned back to Sam and took another step forward, using his height to his advantage as he stared cruelly down at Sam. "Where have you been all these months while we were suffering and waiting for you? I demand you to tell me."

Sam began to curl into himself, "I'm…I'm so sorry if you've suffered. I…I didn't mean to—."

Mr. Browley, once across the room and out of hearing range, now appeared by his side in a second. Dean watched, offended and hurt, as the mysterious man held Sam securely and protectively to his side, Sam accepting of his touch.

Mr. Browley turned to Sam's father, confused and more than a little angry. "What the hell is going on here?"

John huffed. "Nothing. Just trying to get some answers is all. This kid's been having himself a little too much _fun _while we were…," he stopped himself. This was not the place. "While we were gone."

Dean watched in alarm as Mr. Browley's eyes reduced to small slits, every word dripping with venom as deadly and thick as acid. "How _dare_ you, how fucking _dare_ you. Who do you think you are, making outrageous accusations about your own son? You don't even know what's happened to him, damn you, because you were never here to know."

The bell rang above the entrance door, signaling a new customer. It was, by the looks of it, a very wealthy woman, wearing expensive-looking apparel, a huge fur coat, pure diamond jewelry, and what looked like a permanent frown. On her way to the cashier, she watched the small television screen hanging in the corner of the room, a news broadcaster speaking persuasively and convincingly about today's exaggerations and lies.

The woman suddenly turned around and, at first, Dean thought she was eyeing his incredibly attractive features –not that he'd take the time to admire her back (assuming he wasn't already)—but was surprised when the woman instantly took a U-turn to stand beside his baby brother.

She poked him lightly. "Hi, are you Sam Corvan?" she asked, deep curiosity bright in her eyes.

Sam nodded half-heartedly, the dark circles under his eyes prominent, and the woman immediately fetched for something in her large, ornately decorated purse.

She pulled out her checkbook and set it on the nearest table, flipping it to an empty page. "How much do you need?"

Sam looked at her blankly. "I'm sorry?"

"To help you with this case. How much do you need?"

Sam shook his head, hands held up at chest-level. "Please, no, I…I really don't need anything. Thank you for your support, but…" Sam shrugged, smiling sadly. "I'm really not worth it."

The woman, who had been signing her name, stopped, her pen halfway finishing her last name. She stood to full height, her tall heels making them eye-to-eye. She looked at him, mouth twitching. "Sam Corvan, I have no doubt that you feel hurt, alone, unneeded,_ unwanted_. However, just because your family abandoned you, doesn't mean this town will abandon you. We are all rooting for you, and will help in whatever way we can."

All Winchesters stood speechless, one out of slight gratification and two out of utter confusion, resentment, and disorientation.

How the hell is a whole town involved in…whatever this was?

Dean stepped forward. "Hey, lady, who said we abandoned anyone? Who the hell are you?"

The woman once again stopped writing, her eyes immediately turning to face the speaker. Her eyes were wide with suspicion. "You're Dean Corvan?"

Dean itched to ask how the _hell_ she knew that, but instead responded with a gruff, "Yeah."

The woman's face pinched with anger, and before Dean's reflexes kicked in there was a sharp pain on his cheek, leaving a bright red handprint in its place. "I hope you burn in hell, Dean Corvan."

With that, she finalized the check, ripped it out of her checkbook, and handed it unceremoniously to Sam. "Take this, Sam, it should help. I will see you at 8:30 five days from now."

Evidently deciding against the food here, she nodded goodbye, turning and going back the way she came, her heels clacking as she exited.

Dean watched her go, stupefied, then turned to Sam. "Sammy…what's going on?"

Sam stood, eyes wide and mouth twitching and arm burning. Did he want them to know? Did he want them to know his awful secret?

Sam swallowed hard, flicking a quick gaze to Mr. Browley, his eyes on Sam with a reassuring and comforting hand on his shoulder. Sam returned to look at his family, the family he hadn't seen in so long, ironically finding them in a popular fast food restaurant.

"I…I don't…I don't know how to explain all this," he said shamefully, looking toward the floor. He sniffed; he couldn't do it. He couldn't give his family what they wanted, not without giving away what little dignity he had left, if he had any at all.

How would he even start?

A man near the back of the restaurant shushed loudly, striding over and increasing the TV volume hanging in the corner of the room. Everyone grew surprisingly silent and watched expectantly.

The news broadcaster was back on, hair elegantly pulled back and microphone in hand. "Sam Corvan, the suspected assault victim of motel manager Larry Foreman will be continuing his trial this Friday at 8:30. Michael Hathorne, son of renowned Lionel Hathorne, will be performing as judge once again. With us today is author Tony Williams. Tony, how do you feel about this? Do you think Judge Hathorne is doing a poor job?"

The camera angle changed to a tall man with a black, sleek suit, his face tight with lips pursed. "Cathy, I believe this man is doing a _terrible _job. He's deliberately antagonizing and belittling Samuel Corvan and actually breaking federal law by allowing Mr. Foreman to publicly interrogate him. The boy should have the right to not even see his attacker. Essentially, Michael Hathorne is corrupt and needs to be removed immediately from the judicial branch." He shook his head. "This can't go on."

Murmurs throughout the restaurant grew louder and more prominent, and Dean and John looked at each other in dread and shock. What could have possibly happened for Sam to be on the_ news__? _And in court?

What the _hell_ was going on here?

The elder Winchesters turned to where Sam had been standing, shocked to see that space empty. They glanced around wildly, finding no Sam in sight.

Mr. Browley looked at them tersely, still enraged at this family's ignorance and neglect. "He left. He'll be back later."

They turned to him, as if they haven't even realized he was there, and the professor rolled his eyes obviously.

He huffed. "You want to know what happened to Samuel?" Two quick nods. "Sit. I will…provide you with a very _brief_ summary. The rest Sam will tell you himself."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-

By the end of the story both father and son were dangerously nearing hyperventilation, their breath coming in raspy gasps and tears spilling heedlessly down their cheeks.

John rubbed a hand over his face, guilt he'd never felt before beginning to eat away at his insides. "Oh my God, I-I didn't know. How could I n-not have known?" He sobbed into his hands. "What have I done?"

Dean hiccupped, not seeming to here his father as he set in his own rotting turmoil. A hand brushed at teary eyes, not out of embarrassment but the necessary urge to see. "You…you can't be serious. Sammy…Sammy went through that?" He slammed his fist onto the table, "God_damn _it!"

Several sniffles came from behind and beside him, and it was just then that Dean realized nearly the entire restaurant had been listening to Mr. Browley's tale, even the cashiers and chefs working there were peeking their heads through the crowd.

John wiped at his eyes. "And this Michael Hathorne that newscaster was talking about. That man is Sam's judge?"

The professor nodded sadly, his fingers clasped together. "His father Lionel is a very prestigious man in the courtroom, very honest and very good at what he does." He sighed. "I wish his son were the same."

John growled, his mind still not fully wrapped around this. His son, his _own_ _son_, brutally raped and used for Larry Foreman's pleasure.

John put his head in his hands. "How…how long did you say that bastard had my son?"

Mr. Browley looked down at his hands, his initial hatred for the Corvans no longer as evident. They have suffered infinitely because of Samuel's own suffering, and that meant something. "Months, Mr. Corvan, months." He thought about it for another moment, trying to be more precise. He sighed, shrugging. "Maybe half a year."

The color from both Dean and John's face disappeared, turning them chalk white. "That's around when we…left."

Mr. Browley squinted his eyes in sudden anger. "And, may I ask, _why _exactly did you leave?"

John licked his lips, his mind still focused on Sam. "It's a long story."

"So was Sam's."

John distractedly rolled his still tear-filled eyes, and one of the nosy men standing behind him slapped him hard on the back. "Yeah, man, why'd you leave Sam all alone? You damn prick, this is all your fault."

John immediately turned to face the thin man, rage boiling in his eyes. The surprised man took a sudden step back. "H-hey, hey now, don't l-look at me like that." John stood. "I was…w-was just sayin', man, S-Sam's had it pretty rough."

John took a step and grabbed the man unforgivingly by the collar, eyes wide with fury. "You think I don't _realize _that?" He shoved the man backward, the burly man behind him gratefully catching him before he fell gracelessly onto his ass.

He nodded brusquely to Dean, who was already standing. "Come on. We're going to find Sam."

Dean nodded, businesslike, already walking briskly beside John toward the exit. They ignored the numerous whispers behind them, some asking the oppressing man if he was okay and some reprimanding him for his unnecessary spite.

Dean smirked, unable to overhear the man's shriveled, panicky response. "Oh, oh shit. T-That…oh God, I-I think the world just flashed before my eyes. Oh fuck."

Yep. Winchester style.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o_

After a full hour of what seemed like senseless searching, they finally, _finally, _found Sam, sitting solitary in a grassy field almost a mile off the road. Shirtless, he sat contently in the bright sun, knees against his chest and arms wrapped loosely around his legs, his long-sleeved shirt and hoodie tossed carelessly to the side. Without the protective layering of clothing, though, Sam's scars were publicized and out in the open, and Dean nearly gasped at what he saw. His entire back looked like it had been mauled by a bear, red lines crisscrossing and overlapping all over the tender skin, not an inch left unblemished.

With teary eyes, Dean and John fought hard to ignore Sam's physical condition, sitting on either side of the boy. Dean moved Sam's clothes and placed them in his own lap.

Unintentionally, Dean snaked his eyes over his brother's chest, seeing multiple bite and fingernail marks, along with several straight, clean-cut scratches.

In his own morbid depression, Dean felt like shriveling up, dying alone on the side of the road where he belonged. He hadn't been able to save his baby brother. Faintly, Dean realized that death was the only way to escape this horror film that kept replaying in his mind. But, something deep inside of him, lurking in the back of his mind didn't want to shrivel up at all. He wanted to lash out, make his malignant feelings known, like killing something_ was _the only way to make some of this lingering heartache go away.

Pained, he leaned forward slightly, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper. "Sammy?"

Sam continued gazing at his bare feet, his expression remaining unchanged. "I'm sorry you had to find out like that. I…I wanted to tell you myself, but…"

Dean shook his head. "No, no, Sam, you have nothing to apologize for. I just wish…" Dean's mouth pulled up in a grimace, fighting his overwhelming emotions. "I just wish we could've been here. You've been through so much." He sniffed, a tear rolling down his cheek. "It's not fair."

Sam closed his eyes, relishing in the bright sun as the rays brushed lightly against his face. He looked almost innocent, Dean decided. Almost how he used to be, back from before all this shit started happening.

Almost.

Carefully, so carefully, Dean lifted a finger, lightly tracing over the flawless skin of his brother's cheek. He looked so innocent, yet…he wasn't, not anymore. He was thrown into the pit of the worst hell, the most maddening torture, and was just as alone when he escaped it. Of course he wouldn't have the miraculous luck of coming out unscathed.

Dean groaned, his eyes filling with thick tears as he found more of the small but numerous scars scattered over Sam's bare torso. "Shit, Sammy, I'm so sorry, _so_ sorry," he cried, the floodgates broken forever.

Just like Sam.

"Don't be," was Sam's automatic reply, but he wished he could erase those harsh, unforgiving words. It wasn't Dean's fault, and if his older brother's small responding whimper wa anything to go by it'd look like he begged to differ. A lot.

Sam opened his eyes, squinting against the brightness as he turned to admire Dean's bursting emotions. The caressing hand on his cheek had been removed, now being used to fully cover Dean's ashamed face. Dean moaned in pain again, and Sam put a comforting hand on his brother's shoulder. "Dean, this isn't your fault."

Dean just groaned louder, "No! It is, it is, oh _fuck." _He began to curl into himself, falling onto his back and arms concealing his drenched cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Sammy, I'm so sorry."

Sam shook his head. "N-No, Dean, you didn't do anything wrong; it was me. I…I was too trusting, and he…he…" Sam shut his eyes against the memory, turning his head away. The grass crinkled beside him, and Sam felt Dean's immediate presence, a warm, calloused hand drifting lightly to his shoulder.

"It's okay, Sammy, I promise it's going to be okay. I'm going to make this okay again."

Sam opened his eyes and looked down, avoiding Dean's, and his withdrawn father's, gaze. "I…I also, uh, have a…a bit of a confession." Now it was Sam's turn to cry, his eyes glazing over with tears. "I…" He looked at his nude wrist, sniffling. "My…my watch. H-He took my watch when...when we were…" He stopped, unable to continue.

Dean looked at his brother in horror, eyes wide, and threw his arms around Sam, ignoring the small flinch. "No, Sammy, no, it's okay, I swear. I can get you another one, I promise, it's not a big deal at all." He wrapped his arms tighter around his baby brother, soaking in his warmth. "It doesn't matter, Sammy, I promise, it was just a watch, Sammy, just a watch."

Sam sniffed in disagreement. Hesitant and cautious, Sam surprised himself as he slowly wrapped his arms around his brother's strong shoulders, returning the hug. Dean just squeezed him all the tighter, and Sam rested his head lightly on Dean's shoulder, feeling safer than he has in a long time.

Sam snuggled closer into the nape of Dean's neck, his body somehow having absently found it's way into his big brother's lap. His brother continued whispering soft words of comfort, petting Sam's bangs and lightly rubbing Sam's back. He stopped when his hand found a thick scar going along the spine, his coarse palm caressing the damaged flesh. A finger traveled along the scar, it's length almost covering the entirety of Sam's back. He moved his finger to another part of Sam's back, finding another long scar, like he was whipped endlessly. _Like in the demon's vision._

Dean licked his lips, once again on the brink of tears. He wanted to know, he wanted to know _so _bad what had happened to his baby brother. But should he ask? Should he take the risk of bringing Sam out of the minute bliss he could have achieved? "What…," Dean began before abruptly stopping himself.

Sam understood the unspoken question, and after a silent moment answered, "Larry had a thing for toys."

Dean's eyes widened, and his throat felt constricted. He held a hand to his neck, feeling suffocated. Was his brother referring to just the whip, or something else as well? "You mean…?"

"Yeah, those too."

_0o0o0o0_

Sam was sitting beside Dean in the newly rented motel room, his legs curled under him and head resting against Dean's chest. "I…I have court in a few days." He licked his lips nervously. "Are you…are you going to come?"

Dean turned to look closely at Sam's expression. "Would you like us to?"

Sam nodded almost desperately.

Dean smiled, pecking a quick kiss to the top of Sam's head. "Then, yes. We will."

**_0o0o0o0_**

**Well there it is. A bit shorter than my usual, I realize, but hopefully it will suffice for now.**

**And I can't help but wonder if I'm skipping around too much. I don't want to make it too boring but I want to make sure it's thorough, as well. If you can let me know if I need to work on that.**

**Hope you enjoyed, until next time!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Alright, here we go with another. Thank you so much for the kind and loyal reviewers out there. It truly means a lot.**

**And I went through this chapter a bit groggily this time, so I'm kind of thinking there may be several errors sprinkled about the page. If there are any significant ones, please let me know and I'll work on amending that. **

**Enjoy!**

**_0o0o0o0_**

**5 Days Later**

"Mr. Browley, please take the stand."

The professor stood, walking as courageously as possible to the witness stand and appearing before the bailiff.

"Do you swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth so help you god?"

Mr. Browley held up a shaking hand. "I-I do," he said nervously, then sat at the witness stand.

Larry Foreman stood, wrapping the clean jacket over his jutting stomach before walking to stand beside the professor.

"Thank you for taking the time to be here, Mr. Browley. Before beginning, can you please explain your relation with Sam Corvan?"

Mr. Browley nodded, already beginning to sweat lightly at the nape of his neck. "I was Samuel's Business Law professor before he went missing."

Mr. Browley let out an "ahh" and watched the professor interestedly. "So you actually understand the court system, yes?"

"That is correct."

Mr. Browley nodded, "Alright, well, let's begin." He paced near Judge Hathorne's personal, lifted stand. "Please explain to both myself and the audience _exactly how you came upon the missing Sam."_

Mr. Browley licked his lips. "Well, I was in Ol' Bill Brew—."

"How often do you go there?"

"Almost every day," he admitted, "Ever since I was a child."

Larry nodded. "Go on."

"Well, Sam had walked in with," he pointed to Larry, "you, and another, taller man."

Sam's lawyer answered the unspoken question. "Joe Blake."

"Right, Joe Blake. You two and the bartender, Gary, were…well, I was too far away to actually hear anything—."

Larry held up a finger, looking at the man skeptically. "You're here as a witness to help the audience and Judge Hathorne determine who's innocent and who's guilty, yet you don't even know what was discussed? How do you know it was anything sinister at all?"

"Because you _touched _him as though you _owned_ him," Mr. Browley snapped. "All of you are disgusting, sexually crazed perverts that fed on a poor boy's innocence. You three shame this town."

Larry rolled his eyes, annoyed. "Okay, sir, we're not here for your opinion, or what you _think _happened. We just want the truth. So, please…let's start hearing it, shall we?"

Mr. Browley heard Dean Corvan among others curse loudly in the courtroom.

Judge Hathorne pounded onto the sound block. "Silence, you damn fools!"

After another moment, Larry regained his control. "Alright, so…after the police arrived and took Gary Howard, Joe Blake, and I to the station, precisely what was it Sam said to you? Did he admit to anything?"

"Yes, he most certainly did. He…he told me—," He wiped a tear from his eye, his voice suddenly losing any authoritative superiority he had once used. "He said you raped him, every day. He admitted to being your personal _'fuck toy'," _he sneered, "sometimes being…used multiple times each day."

The murmurs throughout the crowd increased, each spectator turned to their neighbor in dismay. Dean and John were clenching their hands into tight fists, both Corvans' eyes raging with unspent fire.

Larry nodded languidly. "Yes, well, that would have been very tragic…if I had raped him." He sighed. "Alright, I'm finished questioning you. You're of no use to me." As Mr. Browley returned to his seat, Larry looked to Judge Hathorne. "Your Honor, if I could bring Sam Corvan back to the stand?"

Unsuspecting members of the audience gasped, some visibly concerned.

Like Dean and John Corvan.

As Sam swore on the Bible and returned to his seat at the stand, he kept his eyes solely on his worn converses, his gaze away from his family and, more importantly, away from his interrogator.

Larry leaned forward against the stand.

Sam immediately backed up at the close proximity, his eyes intrinsically falling on Larry's plump face.

"So, Sammy, let's recall some of the things you supposedly 'admitted' to during our previous talk."

Sam nodded, unsure. "O-Okay."

Larry licked his lips, looking upward in reflection. "Last week, you admitted to a few of the…interesting techniques that were done upon that…" he cleared his throat, just barely stopping himself from the vulgarity that could get him convicted, "body of yours."

Sam shifted in his seat.

"Can we get a recap of that?"

Sam looked at him in horror, incredulous.

Sam's lawyer shot up from his seat, "Objection!"

Judge Hathorne hit the sound block, "Denied!"

Larry shrugged at Sam. "Well, I just thought it'd be easier for any members of the audience that weren't…_here_ last time to see it," he said, giving Sam a look that made him realize Larry was referring to Dean and his dad.

Sam shriveled in his seat. "I don't see how that's necessary. It's been on the news plenty."

Larry nodded his partial agreement. "Yes, I suppose. But," he countered, "just to make it interesting I will read one of the statements you made a week ago; in fact, this quote occurred just a moment before we so abruptly ended the session."

Sam gulped, shifting in his chair. He knew which part of Sam's statement Larry would choose.

Larry flipped through a set of papers until he found the one he was looking for. Clearing his throat, he read it as though he were speaking of the weather. "'They,' referring to his family, of course, 'would never tell me to lie down and play dead while they fucked me from behind. They would never bite at my nipples until they bled as if they were part of a meal. They would never shove a vibrator up my ass for pleasure when they had to go work. Remember that time when we played 'good cop, bad cop' and I had to suck that puny cock of yours? For the eighth time that day, mind you. Or what about when I'd shampoo your hair in the shower, then lick the soap off your filthy body when I was done?

"'My family would never do that to me, but you did.'" He set the papers onto the table, putting his hands behind his back contemplatively as he rolled back on his heels.

"So," Larry began. "I think from this we're all able to conclude that Sam is convinced that I, Larry Foreman, 'raped' him. Is that correct?"

Sam nodded hesitantly. "Y-yes."

Larry considered this, leaning against the stand with a hand to his chin. He watched Sam from the corner of his eye. "With this theoretical thought in mind, I have to ask…did you like it?"

Sam gasped, looking at the man in disgust. "Excuse me?"

He shrugged. "I thought it was a fairly simple question. Did you like the sex I supposedly gave you?"

Sam inhaled deeply, as if the room was suddenly stealing the oxygen from him and he had to gather as much as possible. He pushed himself up in his chair self-consciously. "N-no, never. I-I…I-It was repulsive—."

Larry raised an eyebrow. "Are you implying your body didn't _respond _to 'my' ministrations?"

Sam gasped and put a hand to his mouth, looking away from the audience and Judge Hathorne and Larry,_ everyone, _his vision blurry. "I-It did, but…It w-wasn't my fault. M-my body…"

Sam ignored the loud cries from the spectators and the resulting gavel and piercing voice. Did he like Larry's sex? Surely his body wouldn't physically react to something it didn't enjoy? Maybe Sam was just going through the motions, knowing that it was _supposed _to be bad and, consequently, he'd forced his mind to believe the same. Maybe he liked it when Larry fucked him, maybe he enjoyed the man's groping hands and wet tongue. Maybe he was only fooling himself.

It was almost as if Larry was following the entire train of thought in Sam's head, his wicked smile growing until that's all you could see on his face. His damn smile.

Sam shivered.

Eventually, the room was quieted, and Larry was able to continue.

He watched Sam lazily. "So, on another subject…I noticed the family got back together recently."

Sam gulped, his eyes darting to Dean who was visibly trying to contain himself. John shushed him and gave Sam a hopefully reassuring smile.

He turned back to Larry. "Uhhh…yeah."

Larry nodded. "And, may I ask, how exactly do you feel about this? Ecstatic? Indifferent?...Frightened?"

Sam shot the chubby man a glare. "I'm not scared of my family, damn it. They haven't done anything to me."

Larry threw his hands up in the air as if he just discovered something obvious. "Oh, you're _right. _Nothing except let you get kidnapped and raped a bijillion times."

Sam flinched, but held his ground. "That wasn't their fault." Both Dean and John had explained how the demon had taken them and, while Sam felt awful his family had to suffer, a huge weight had been lifted from him knowing they hadn't voluntarily left him.

Larry walked back up to the witness stand and leaned heavily onto the wood. "You know what? To be honest, I don't even think they left you at all." He pointed accusingly to Dean and John. "I think _they _were the ones that kidnapped you and they were the ones that took turns fucking your body."

All Sam saw was red and wet as he stood from his chair, tears in his eyes, his hands slamming hard against the stand. "Goddamn it, stop implying my family is the one that raped me! It was you that did it, so stop denying it." His energy left him much like it did the previous courtroom appearance. He looked down, shutting his eyes tightly as tears dribbled onto his splayed fingers. His knees gave out and he barely managed to fall back into his chair, hands in his eyes.

Taking the boy when he was weak, Larry leaned further on the witness stand. "You know what, Sammy? I just thought of something, and…I'm really not sure if we should believe you at all. Either your brother and father fucked you—." Sam threw a glance at his family's horrified look,"—or you weren't fucked at all." He slowly paced the area in front of the stand. "Think about it, Sammy. Have you gotten the rape kit?"

Sam looked away, wiping his hand over his eyes. "No."

"Are you planning to?"

"No."

"And why would that be?"

He sniffed, looking away. "If I need a rape kit done to prove I'm a victim, then something is truly wrong with the world," he said, massaging his head gingerly, sporting a headache he was scared he'd never be rid of it.

The other truth of the matter was that they couldn't afford it, but Sam let that part be.

"Too expensive for a poor family such as yourself?"

Sam cursed, "I-I…" He sighed. "It isn't exactly…affordable for us right now."

He ignored his brother and father's astounded gazes, knowing they had never known a rape kit wasn't in their possession. Hell, this entire time they probably thought he'd already had one done.

Larry nodded, bowing. "Alright, thank you so much for your honesty, you've been a great sport. But I think your time to shine is over; can we please bring Dean Corvan, the brother of Sam Corvan, to the stand now?"

Sam looked at Dean in surprise, his brother's eyes just as wide and startled as his.

Curious whispers flew through the crowd, and when Dean was at the witness stand and Sam at the seat in front of the courtroom, the room was dead silent and waiting with baited breath and strained ears.

Larry leaned against the witness stand, his eyes piercing into Dean's disgusted and hatred-filled ones. "So tell me, Mr. Corvan, where exactly have you been these past few months?"

Dean shifted in his seat, recalling the story John had told him. It was a bit flimsy, but hopefully it'd work.

Because really, how many legitimate excuses could there be for leaving your baby brother alone for six months?

Dean gulped. "We were kidnapped."

Larry opened his mouth in a surprised "O" shape. "Oh, so _all _the Corvans were kidnapped at the exact same time? How odd." He smirked. "Please, explain."

Dean licked his lips, realizing how intimidating this man was when he couldn't gut him at will. "Dad and I were going on a college visit a few states over, but some guys jumped us, stuffed us in their van and…" Dean scratched at his head, "It's all kind of hazy. Everything was dark, they kept a cloth over our eyes—."

"How do you know your father couldn't see when you couldn't see?"

"Well…it's implied. And he told me when they let us go."

Larry looked at his oddly, as if he were speaking to a child. "Oh, so they just _let you go? _That's a bit…odd, don't you think?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, I think they thought we were someone else, someone they held a grudge against. They let us go when they found out we were just ordinary people."

Larry blinked a few times, as if he wasn't sure how to take this news in. Dean watched the man's resolve as he tried to subtly change subjects. "So you suggest you haven't seen Sam at all in these months?"

"Not at all."

Larry nodded in consideration. He cocked an eyebrow. "So, I have to ask, are you making the argument that you haven't fucked Sam at all?"

Dean clenched his fists in anger, his teeth grit. "How disgusting do you think I am, you shit?_ Of course_ I haven't touched my brother—."

Larry held up a hand. "Okay, okay, I get it. Calm down." He paced, hands behind his back, in front of the stand. He looked subtly over to Sam, but the boy's eyes were solely on his brother, as if trying to say something to him.

Larry took a step to the right and blocked the two off from further communication.

Larry cleared his throat, turning back to Dean. "Alright, last question, and I'm quite curious about this one. It's more subjective than most questions, but I'm sure Judge Hathorne would approve." He turned to the judge, "Right, Your Honor?"

Judge Hathorne. "Indeed, please proceed."

Larry nodded with a quick "Thank you, Your Honor," before turning his direction back to Dean, leaning his body heavily on the stand. "So, what I wanted to ask was, what do _you think happened to little Sammy?"_

Dean's eyebrows went sharply downward, and he had to fight himself just to stay seated. "I think you hurt and raped my little brother. I think you're a disgusting son of a bitch that will rot in hell." Dean looked piercingly into Larry's eyes, leaning toward the older man and in a low voice continued, "but, don't worry, you'll get what you deserve soon enough. I'll make sure you rot in hell by the time this is over."

Larry backed up several steps, his face shining with a small layer of sweat. He pulled at his collar nervously. "Alright, well, thank you for your opinion." He turned eagerly to Judge Hathorne. "Your Worship, I'm done with this man. The defense rests."

Judge Hathorne nodded, pounding his gavel. "The next court meeting will be determined at a later date. Trial adjourned."

_0o0o0o0o_

"Sam, what the _hell? _Why won't you get the rape kit? This could help our case a lot." John asked loudly, standing from his seat in the small, cramped motel room. He flung his arms in the air. "You know, I really believe you just don't fucking think sometimes."

Sam shook his head, looking purposefully away. "Dad, I know it looks bad that I haven't gotten one yet, but—."

John held his hand up. "Sam…" He closed his eyes a split second to contain his evident wrath. "If the next words that come out of your mouth aren't, 'Yes, Dad, I want to get a rape kit so I no longer act like a douche,' then I really, _really _don't want to hear it."

Sam looked down at his feet, silent.

John growled, barbarically grabbing the nearest object, a porcelain lamp, and flung it hard into the wall, the shattered pieces scattering freely throughout the room.

Breathing heavily, John Winchester strode angrily across the room and, with one strong hand, heaved the door open, exited, and shut it deafeningly behind him.

Dean sat quietly beside Sam. "Listen, Sammy, I…I know you want to act like this didn't happen. We all do, but…," Dean stopped, licking his lips as he considered what to say.

Before he could continue, Sam spoke, sounding both detached and shocked, gaze ahead of him. "Dad didn't even listen to me, didn't even let me finish."

Dean sighed. "I know, Sammy, but don't let him get to you. This has been hard on us all; he didn't mean it."

Sam stood suddenly, "No, no," he said, shaking his head. "He _did _mean it." He clutched his hair in self-hatred and barely suppressed anxiety. "He's embarrassed. Oh my God. He's embarrassed that his son, a Winchester for fucking sakes, got raped by a_ human_." His legs were no longer able to protect his suddenly too heavy body, and he slipped to his knees. "This must be the epitome of failure for him. Oh God. Oh shit."

Dean was by his side in an instant, his hands grabbing Sam's shoulders. "No, Sammy, no, he doesn't think anything like that, and neither do I." He leaned Sam against his chest, his body limp against him. Dean played lightly with long strands of mahogany hair, hoping it acted as a touch of comfort. "We both love you _so much. _He just gets a little overwhelmed sometimes, Sammy, he can't always handle big emotions because there's not usually much to begin with." Dean rubbed a hand alone Sam's arm. "He…he just doesn't understand, doesn't understand why you don't want the rape kit…he knows how much it could help us."

Sam played with a piece of string hanging from Dean's jeans. "Neither do you, but you're not wildly throwing things across the room."

Dean sat silently for a moment, pondering it. He leaned forward questioningly to catch a glimpse of Sam's expression. "How would you know that I don't know?"

Sam continued avoiding eye contact, his gaze on Dean's thigh. "I…I…" He sighed loudly. "Judge Hathorne doesn't care what happens to me, he's just an immoral and disreputable pervert. Larry will walk away from this innocent, and there's nothing we or a damn rape kit can do about it." He shrugged. "Might as well not waste the money."

Dean watched the back of Sam's head in horror. He positioned Sam to lean against one arm and looked at Sam's expression from the other side, holding Sam's bangs out of the way for a clearer view. "Wait, what? Sammy, what are you talking about? A pervert? How do you know that?"

Sam shuffled uneasily under the scrutiny. "The first day of trial, Larry kept…he kept asking all these degrading and…," Sam breathed deeply, "very...graphic questions." Dean wrapped his arms tighter around Sam. "T-the crowd, they were so angry, but…but Judge Hathorne…he allowed all the questions, told me to answer them as descriptively as possible." Sam looked away. "He'd keep shifting in his seat, like he was uncomfortable or something. It didn't take me long to realize he had a boner." Sam laughed to himself as tears fell unknowingly onto the material of his hoodie, realizing that he himself had awkwardly shifted in that same way so many times before when he was still with Larry. He remembered how self-loathing he was because of his body's reactions, how sickening and unwanted they were. "And after Mr. Browley had gone to see Judge Hathorne, coming back with his face all flushed, I knew he had caught him in the act." He laughed despite himself, his smile cruel. "Guess I'm just getting everybody wood these days."

Dean choked on a sob, and put his head on Sam's shoulder, shaking his head miserably. "I'm so sorry, Sammy, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be."

That seemed to just make Dean cry harder, and his arms tightened again around Sam's thin waist. "You don't deserve any of this, never have, and yet…"

"Maybe that tells you something, Dean."

Dean turned his head searchingly, tears dripping down his cheek. "What?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe I do deserve it."

Dean shook his head and harshly turned Sam to face him fully, Dean's hands tight and commanding around Sam's forearms. "No, Sammy, _no. _You don't deserve any of this shit. Not any of it." Dean's eyes shone vivid and bright with tears, and for a moment Sam was mesmerized by the sight. Something about Dean's eyes told him something he had never considered before. But now…how could he not have noticed before?

His older brother was still so innocent.

Sam pushed Dean away before he could finish whatever the fuck he was saying, just wanting to _get away. _What if he infected his own brother with this horrible disease?

Sam felt his shoulder drenched with Dean's brilliantly clear, shiny tears, but he ignored them, releasing Dean's other arm from around his waist and instantly stood.  
Dean gaped, mouth wide in astonishment, hurt, and confusion. Sam ignored the look completely, instead going immediately to a few of the stray shirts lying carelessly on the floor. He scooped them all up hurriedly, something deep in his mind telling him he may not have enough time, have enough time to save him. He jabbed a hand at Dean's duffle and threw it onto the nearest bed, stuffing the clothes in without order.

"W-what?" Dean asked as he stood up and walked swiftly to Sam.

But Sam was already on the move, striding to the bathroom before shutting and locking the door.

Dean immediately came and stood at the door, pounding his fist against it loudly. "Sam? Sam, what the hell are you doing? You're scaring me." A pause. "Answer me, damn it!"

A moment later and Sam unlatched the lock and swung the door open, his eyes barely sparing Dean a glance as he brought all the toiletries into the small room, stuffing them into the duffle as well.

Dean grabbed both of Sam's slender wrists, turning the boy to face him and shaking him carelessly. "Sam, what in the _hell _is going on?" He looked at his own packed duffle, his heart burning. In the smallest of whispers, he asked, "What are you doing?", his voice cracking.

Sam's heart tore at Dean's quiet inquisition, but he couldn't break down, not now. He pulled against Dean's grip, but it was tight, tighter than was comfortable.

"Let me go."

"I won't until you answer me, damn it" he demanded fiercely, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"You can still save yourself, Dean. You can still leave."

Dean's resenting gaze vanished, his mouth suddenly a grimace as he held back tears, his bottom lip trembling in overwhelming emotion. "W-what?"

"I'm just going to taint you."

Dean moaned, his world turning upside down. When had it gotten this bad? How was he supposed to fix this?

"You can't fix me, Dean. Nobody can."

"No no no," Dean replied involuntarily, crushing Sam to his chest and wrapping his arms around his back. This was all his fault. The demon had taken him, and he hadn't fought against him hard enough. He hadn't _done his job,_ and this was the outcome, the conclusion to his own sad, miserable life.

Sam was going to die broken, and Dean couldn't help him.

Dean shook his head in denial. "I can save you, Sammy, I can save you. You were thrown into the fire, but I can get you out. I can, Sammy, I swear."

Sam held on to his brother, his hands resting lightly at the small of his back. "It's okay, Dean. I belong in the fire."

Dean sobbed, bringing Sam closer to his chest. "No, Sammy, _no. _You belong here with Dad and me, you belong with us. Nowhere else."

Sam didn't call him out on the lie.

_0o0o0o0o_

Dean watched quietly as his brother laid obliviously in the dirtied bed, even in sleep the skin under his eyes smudged dark with fatigue. John had come back wordlessly only a few hours ago, after a full hour finally gathering the courage to awkwardly apologize to Sam. Sam, of course, claimed there was no one at fault but himself, and apologized for his "insolence". Stunned, John accepted the apology.

Oh, how stupid his father could be.

Because Sam didn't _do_ anything. He didn't throw a lamp into the wall and stomp foolishly out of the room. John basically took all the blame from himself and tossed it on Sam.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. Now there was one more thing Sam thought he was at fault for. If John had denied it, said Sam had done nothing wrong, that he had just overreacted, it wouldn't be a problem. But, now…

Dean sighed, and only when he opened his eyes and looked up did he notice Sam standing a foot in front of him, watching him thoughtfully. Dean offered the kid a small, sad smile. "Hey, Sammy, thought you were sleeping."

Sam smiled lightly, coming up to Dean and, after a moment of hesitation, sat down unsurely in Dean's lap. Dean's smile immediately brightened, his arms wrapping securely around Sam's thin waist.

"You thought incorrectly," Sam said.

Dean's eyebrow rose. "Really?"

Sam nodded, feeling oddly proud of his deception. "Seems you've been out of the hunting gig for too long." His smile faded as the words escaped his lips. It was because of _Sam_ that Dean and his father haven't gone hunting for so long. He should be the one to blame. Sam looked down at his airborne feet, feeling the urge to toe the ground. "I...I'm sorry about that."

Dean brought a hand to Sam's face and pushed long strands of hair behind his brother's ear, scrutinizing Sam's sad expression. "Sammy, what are you talking about? You have nothing to be sorry for."

Sam jumped onto his feet, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Oh, don't _give me that. _You know just as well as I do that it's _my _fault Larry took me and fucked me, and it's _my _fault you're not hunting." Sam crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes suddenly and keenly eyeing his half-packed duffel. "I'm a distraction you can't afford."

Dean was on his feet and beside his baby brother in record time, throwing his arms around him and pulling him into a fierce hug. "No, Sammy, _God _no. _None_ of this is your fault, you hear me? You're not to blame here, Larry and that demon are the ones who should be punished."

Sam laid his chin lightly on Dean's shoulder and, for several long minutes they just stood there silently, breathing in each other's presence. Sam swallowed. "D-Didn't you say that I w-was...I was 'thrown into the fire'?"

Dean stood in silence for a moment, then nodded into Sam's hair. "Yeah, but I'm gonna get you out, Sammy. I promise." _I love you too much to let you suffer, _Dean's heart was screaming out.

Sam nodded against Dean's shoulder, licking his dry lips. "In the United States, did you know roughly 500,000 people receive medical treatment from fire and burn injuries every year?" He tapped his head lightly against Dean's. "They don't come out without scars, Dean."

Dean sobbed into Sam's hair, his arms tightening around his baby brother's figure. It felt like he couldn't breathe, like he was suffocating on air he wasn't allowed to use anymore and was being punished for it.

He gasped in small breaths, trying to find enough strength to speak. He swallowed hard. "Not everyone's like that, Sammy. Some people can rise above them. And you will."

Sam said nothing, and Dean snuggling into Sam's hair in desperate longing. How could he make this better?

**_0o0o0o0o0_**

**Hope you enjoyed it. Unfortunately, I'm not sure when I'll be able to update. My schedule is completely full this weekend, so it will probabllyyy occur sometime Monday or Tuesday, but who knows? (Not me, of course).  
If you have any suggestions or requests feel free to throw them at me. I'd love to hear from you. **


	8. Chapter 8

**Enjoy!**

**_0o0o0o0o0o0_**

**Three Months Later**

Everyone filed swiftly into the courtroom, a noisy buzz filling the room as each gossiped to their neighbor and tried to find the best seat. The unreserved seats behind Sam were taken first, Sam sitting unnervingly quiet with his hands clasped together in his lap. He didn't seem too anxious or frightened, and a curious young man behind him tapped him on the shoulder, recorder in hand.

"Excuse me, my name is Ted Murkle and I'm a new reporter here in town. Can you please say a few things about your case?" He waited for a nod before continuing. Ted looked around diffidently. "Firstly, I'd like to ask, uh…where, um…does your family plan to accompany you during this monumental part of your life? Where exactly are they?"

Sam took in an almost pained sigh, only now realizing how many times he's answered that question. "Not here, I guess."

Ted blinked, feeling a bit of pity for the boy. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

Ted saw the distance Sam put in his response, and changed topics. "If I, uh—If I may ask, what exactly do you think the verdict will be?"

Sam turned to face him politely, feeling ill mannered and deciding on making a better impression of himself. The young man's hair was neat and slickly combed back, his jacket ironed probably multiple times, like he was trying too hard to impress. He was no more than twenty-five yet, Sam could still see the indefinable innocence in the man's eyes, that same spotless purity he himself had lost.

He missed it so much.

Sam blinked, and smiled kindly to the man. "Larry will be proclaimed innocent, and everything will go back to the way it was."

For better or for worse, Sam wasn't entirely sure.

Ted seemed surprised, more than surprised, and he leaned closer to Sam in evident misunderstanding. The people sitting around them bent discreetly forward. Why would the boy be smiling if he thought his rapist wouldn't be deemed culpable? Ted Murkel cleared his throat. "You think Mr. Foreman will be _innocent?"_

Sam cocked an eyebrow. "Yes, I do."

The young man pulled timidly at his tie, adjusting and loosening it a bit. He'd probably been listening in to the numerous gossip around the town that's been spreading for weeks, everyone making bets on how long Larry's sentenced will be. "Why, uh…why do you think that?"

Sam shrugged harmlessly. "Just a guess, I suppose."

The bailiff spoke, "Please stand."

He turned back to face the front as Judge Hathorne entered and sat regally in his highchair. He pounded on the sound block a few times, and the carelessly loud whispers ceased as they turned their attention to the judge.

Judge Hathorne cleared his throat. "After much deliberation and consideration on this case, I have finally come to a verdict." The entire room was silent, eerily so, and everyone waited breathlessly for him to continue. But, at the same time, they were already sure of what he'd say. It was obvious, so obvious, that Larry Foreman the motel manager was guilty of the heinous crimes he was at trial for.

But they still wanted to hear it.

Judge Hathorne cleared his throat again. "Throughout these long, difficult few months it often came to my knowledge that the plaintiff failed to present the minimum amount of evidence in many situations. Therefore, after constant reflection, I have determined that Larry Foreman, charged with kidnapping, sexual and aggravated assault, child abuse, attempted prostitution, and both statutory and aggravated rape, is…" He paused a moment and watched Sam's expression, his smile almost cruel as he raised his arms proudly. "Innocent." The crowds shrieked in flabbergasted horror, Ted Murkel the reporter involuntarily gasping loudly into his recorder as he choked on the judge's words. Larry turned to Sam's sickly green face, throwing the boy a daring, repulsive smile, all teeth. The older man licked his lips seductively, and Sam turned away. "As of this moment Larry Foreman is acquitted of all charges. Those also acquitted are Gary Howard and Joe Blake, who I have determined to be entirely innocent of the alleged crimes. Case dismissed," he finalized with a pounding of the gavel.

With one last turn in both Larry's and Sam's direction, he exited the courtroom and quickly fled to his office.

_0o0o0o0o_

Sam closed his eyes tightly. He'd known this was coming, he'd known Larry would be claimed innocent, so why did it hurt so much? It shouldn't have, Judge Hathorne jerking it off in his office was just as good a clue as any; of course he wasn't on Sam's side. He was just like Larry.

He felt a sudden, threatening presence standing over him and Sam opened his eyes, looking up to see Larry towering over him with a victorious, narcissistic smile on his face. He didn't seem to care if the rest of the crowd saw it, Sam suspected. It didn't matter if he was alleged of the rape anymore. The case was over.

Whatever, creepy smiles weren't real evidence anyway.

Sam stood, hoping to avoid Larry, or at least get out from under his shadow. Sam cleared his throat distractedly as he slid his chair under the table, absently noticing multiple bystanders trying to discreetly watch their confrontation.

Slowly, Larry took another step forward and Sam immediately broke into a sweat, their bodies nearly touching in their close proximity.

"That was a damn good try, Sammy, but you'll have to do a lot better than a courtroom case to escape me," Larry said, smiling cruelly as he flashed his tongue out, licking his lips. "Maybe we could even play again sometime."

Sam felt his eyes get watery, but he refused to shed a tear in front of this man. His mouth turned to a grimace as he fought to hold in his emotions. "You won't have me ever again. You're just a sick fuck that can't take 'no' for an answer." He turned away, his voice his determined. "You won't have me again."

Larry brought his bottom lip down into a mock frown. "Aw, but we had so much fun." He rolled a finger slowly up and down Sam's forearm teasingly. Sam shivered.

Larry leaned down, hovering a mere inch above Sam's ear, voice low and husky. "All that time we had together before? That wasn't even the main course. You haven't _felt _real pain, real pleasure." He smirked, lifting his hand to Sam's face and bringing dark strands of hair behind his ear. "Not yet, at least."

Sam's bit his bottom lip hard as his hands clenched tightly, fighting against the overwhelming emotions with all his might.

The spectators were still watching in attentive interest, like a car wreck on the side of the road you couldn't turn away from. Sam met some of their gazes, their eyes blazing with dreadful curiosity, and he wondered if people just liked seeing someone besides themselves in pain. Maybe it took off some of the burden in their own lives.

Sam swatted the man's hand away from his face, his whole body involuntarily shivering at the contact. It had been so long, so long since…

Sam jerked as Larry tried for a second attempt, reaching out to touch his chest. Sam took several steps back, his whole body lurching violently to avoid the man's grasp.

"Get back," Sam gasped out, feeling sweat drip down his back and forehead. "Don't touch me." He leaned against one of the benches beside him, his legs feeling weak.

Joe Blake appeared beside Larry, putting a hand on his shoulder in greeting, Larry's eyes still locked on Sam. "Hey, man, so what are you thinking about that deal we had all those months ago? I could do for some stress relief."

Larry nodded, both their eyes now on Sam. He looked so vulnerable. It was…delicious.

"Same price as before."

"You bet."

Larry smirked. "Well, then we have a deal."

Sam shook his head fervently at the discussion, his feet slowly struggling backward. "No, no, no—."

Joe cocked an eyebrow. "What, you don't want it? Now, come on, we both know what a little slut you are. Of course you want some of this," he said as he cupped his own cock.

Sam shook his head in denial, tears splashing out of his eyes. "No, _fuck _no. You can't have me, damn it, I don't belong to anyone anymore, so get the fuck over it."

The watchful crowd and their murmurs were beginning to increase, and Sam wondered if they were actually planning to do something. He had heard all this talk that the entire town had helped in the search for him, yet, now that he's finally been found, they don't want to help him? Don't want to interfere in the skirmish just in case things don't go their way?

Larry and Joe noticed the numerous spectators' volume growing louder, angrier, and looked at each other for a split second before turning back to Sam. Larry spoke. "Well, I'm starting to see we've overstayed our welcome," he said, walking over to Sam, who unsuccessfully tried to stumble out of his reach. "I'm very sorry for intruding, we'll find our own way out, thanks." Larry grabbed Sam's crotch, his fingernails pinching painfully into the material of Sam's pants. The other hand wrapped around the back of Sam's head, pushing his head viciously forward as their mouths met in a sloppy kiss. After a long moment, Larry released him, breathless. "But we'll be sure to come pick you up later. Until then," he said with a final smirk.

Both Larry and Joe parted ways, one exiting the courtroom while the other slipping through the backdoor, the way Judge Hathorne had gone.

One of the anonymous members of the increasingly meddlesome crowd came to stand beside Sam, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, kid, are you okay?"

Sam sneered, shrugging the unwanted hand away. "Please, don't act like you care about me for my personal benefit; it's really unnecessary and only more troublesome than if you had just let me be."

The man's eyebrows curved downward in anger. "Excuse me, did your parents teach you any fucking manners? I was just trying to help."

Sam looked at him for a moment, speechless. "If you were trying to help, I would have seen you standing beside me ten minutes ago."

The man stood there in stunned surprise, and Sam turned away from the man, exiting the courtroom while the rest of the spectators watched on.

_0o0o0o0o_

Judge Hathorne sighed tiredly as he walked down the long hall to reach the last door, his office. He stood in front of the door for a few minutes with no particular reason in mind. He just laid his head against the door, his mind running through all Sam's words during the trial.

After a moment he began feeling a boner coming on as the mostly harmless thoughts became lustful. He put his key through the doorknob, his dick jutting against his black robe. A second later, a door across the hall closed and Judge Hathorne turned to see Larry sidling through the main door and into the hall.

The judge's smile widened at the man's entrance, unabashed in front of his now good friend.

"How do you think it went over?" Judge Hathorne asked he opened up the room to his spacious office.

Larry smirked, entering in behind the man. "The townspeople don't approve, but what do they matter? His family won't be happy either but, after a few obstacles, we could easily get the boy back, have some _real _fun."

Judge Hathorne moaned at the mere _thought _of what kind of "fun" he was referring to, his dick twitching in interest. "The way you talk about it, it sounds like Sam is some sort of god when it comes to sex."

Larry nodded, sighing as he reminisced. "Yeah, he was damn good. Best I've ever had." He held up a finger as he stared at the ceiling in concentration. "I think one of the absolute_ best times we had together was when I forced him to be more interactive."_

Judge Hathorne listened interestedly. "You mean like you made _him _fuck you?" Larry nodded. "Wow, that is really fucking hot. And he didn't struggle at all?"

Larry squinted his eyes in thought. "Well, the first time I made him he fought a _lot _which, of course, I punished him for. Whipped the shit out of him. But," Larry continued, twiddling with a pencil, "I think it wasn't until about a month or so that Sam truly gave up. After that, when I made him fuck me he did it almost like a zombie." He sighed lightly. "But damn it was good."

"Sounds like it," Judge Hathorne replied as he shifted, now rock hard.

Larry nodded in response. After a long moment of silence, he heaved a long sigh. "Damn, I can't stop thinking about him."

"Sounds like he did some real permanent damage to your psyche," he laughed, watching Larry nod eagerly in agreement.

"But not as much as we can."

Larry and the judge wheeled rapidly around in the direction of the voice, their feet pivoting forward defensively as their eyes zealously sought out the culprit.

A figure stepped forward from beneath the shadows, then another, their eyes menacing and lethal, as sharp and deadly as the unique weapons they carried in their hands. Both men had watery eyes filled with unshed tears, but that didn't deter them from looking absolutely fucking scary. It was only when both men were fully uncovered from the darkness that the judge and motel manager realized who they were dealing with.

Dean and John Corvan.

Larry and Hathorne backed up hastily, tripping over their feet to get away until they ran abruptly into the wall, pressed hard against it, as if they could disappear into it if they tried hard enough.

"You haven't paid for your sins," Dean said, eerie like death itself, taking a step forward, two, and the men before the Winchesters were left as a pitiful bundle on the floor, squealing in terror and fright.

"Don't worry," Dean said, smirking. "You will soon."

And Dean started hacking.

**_0o0o0o0_**

**Wow, I feel awful for leaving you all with such a short chapter. Again, I do apologize for this, but I really need to start writing this up.**  
**Now is the time to throw in any requests on what you want happening in the plot. I'll be happy to incorporate any ideas.**

**Hope you enjoyed!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Enjoy!**

**_0o0o0o0_**

Sam watched silently as Dean and his father came back into their recently rented seedy motel room, each heaving a long sigh as they set their bags down in the corner of the room. They looked tired, but they looked invigorated at the same time, as if what they had accomplished—so conveniently without Sam—had lifted a weight from their already overburdened shoulders.

They avoided Sam's now intent gaze, and he took the time to scrutinize them more closely, looking for hidden injuries. Sam heaved a sigh of relief when he didn't find any, but almost wanted to suck in that breath when he more closely inspected Dean's outer jacket.

The jacket that was being conveniently hidden from Sam's sight.

Sam whirled his head to John disbelievingly and, before the older man was able to conceal it, he noticed the small red, mysterious blotches smeared along the material.

Sam said nothing as Dean sat down, wordlessly plopping beside him on the sofa. Sam shifted in his seat, away from Dean, and the older boy acted like he didn't notice.

Sam cleared his throat lightly. "So…everything okay?"

Dean continued to admire the poor painting of the walls. He nodded, feigning nonchalance. "Yep."

Sam nodded, discreetly eyeing the bloodstains on his family's clothing. How could they expect to hide it from him? Did they really think he was that stupid?

Shit.

Sam looked away, hiding the tear that fell down his cheek. He had trusted Larry, let the guy fuck him for god only knows how long, so of fucking _course they thought he was that stupid._

"Sam?"

Sam hastily wiped away the lone tear before turning to his father. "What?"

John shuffled on his feet, hands deep in his pockets. He looked remorseful and guilty.

Sam watched him incredulously, almost excited knowing they would admit to him their harsh deed. They wouldn't lie to him about something so important, how could he have been so foolish? They had murdered a man, maybe not innocent, but still human. Of course Sam deserved to know.

John licked his lips, eyes glued to the floor. "I wanted to, uhh…I wanted to apologize to you for my, uh, behavior."

Sam raised an eyebrow, confused. "What?"

"I realize I was being an ass to you before about the…the," John cleared his throat. "Rape kit, but I shouldn't have been, son. I understand why you chose not to get it, so…" John nodded awkwardly. "Yeah."

Sam's mouth opened to speak, to respond, to do _something, but he couldn't seem to do it. His lips were opening, but nothing was coming out._

He had been expecting a justification from his father, not an apology. An apology that was unwarranted, no doubt.

Sam shifted, trying to act polite. He didn't think it worked. "It's fine. Don't worry about it."

John nodded again, unsure of what to do now.

Sam stood, saving his father from further embarrassment. He shouldn't have to deal with such an idiotic son. "I'm going to bed."

Dean took a questioning glance out the window, noticing the sun hadn't even begun to set. He turned back to his kid brother, watching him with both confusion and overwhelming concern. "Hey, Sammy, are you okay? You seem a bit…" He paused. "Off."

Sam kept his head down and back turned, away from his father and brother. "What would make you think that?" he questioned, quiet and dull.

Dean shifted in his seat, throwing a concerned glance at John, which the older man returned, before turning to look again at Sam's back. "I dunno, I guess you just seem a bit...disappointed or something. Sad, I guess." His eyes darkened. "Did something happen, Sammy? Did somebody come and try to talk to you while we were gone?" Dean had been fending off news reporters for months, and not so nicely either. His eyebrows curled to an angry "V" as his thoughts took another, darker turn. "Did somebody try something on you?"

Sam snorted quietly. "Why do you assume it's a stranger that hurt me?" he murmured, not even sure his family heard it before walking to his bed and sliding under the thin sheets, hoping he'd drown in them.

_0o0o0o0o_

It was in the news not long after the occurrence. Sam was eating cereal at their small kitchen counter while Dean cooked up eggs he would later unsuccessfully try and force Sam to eat. John was looking at the newspaper, flipping disinterestedly through the pages before taking a sip of his steaming coffee.

Sam's eyes turned to the news reporter on the screen.

"Larry Foreman, the motel manager just recently deemed innocent in a rape case against Sam Corvan, has been found dead in the local County Courthouse, his body mutilated almost beyond recognition. Michael Hathorne, son of the prestigious Lionel Hathorne, was found alongside Foreman, just as disfigured. The culprits have yet to be determined, but police are doing everything they can to get an ID to these unknown slaughterers. Only time will tell."

Sam continued watching the screen blankly, and if the reporter was saying anything of great importance Sam didn't have a damn clue. How far did Dean and his father go? How goddamn _mutilated could Larry and Hathorne have been?_

Doing this only took away his family's humanity.

Sam ducked his head and rubbed a hand against his forehead, completely avoiding any looks his family may or may not be shooting him. Sam wasn't innocent, wasn't pure, whatever. But Dean and John still were, in a small sense, at least. Sure, they've been killing things nearly all their life, but it's for a good cause and it's one of the few constants in their lives besides each other. Brutal, straightforward murder of another human? No, that was something entirely different, and Sam didn't like the prospect one bit. What if it affects Dean and John's view on life completely? What if they see the blood on their hands when they've already been washed clean? What if they look at another male and immediately find self-conceived malice in their eyes? Would they kill them, too?

Sam shook his head against his palm. No, his brother and father weren't murderers. They were good, genuine people with a slightly screwed to hell moral compass focused almost solely around the Winchester family and it's survival. Sam appreciated it, he did, but sometimes his family was willing to give up too much for something or someone so insignificant.

Like Sam.

A hand landed on Sam's shoulder, and he jumped out of his chair, swirling around to find Dean with his hands up, eyes instantly wide regret and worry.

Sam, the fright already melting into hot anger, took a step forward. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me you two killed them?" Sam pursed his lips. "DYou think I didn't deserve to know?"

Dean shook his head back and forth in rapid succession, guilt eating away at him. "No, Sammy, no, you deserved to know, I swear. You deserve so much. Dad and I made a mistake and we should've told you. We realize that now."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, you realize that _now."_

Dean licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Sam the entire time. "We're so sorry, Sammy. We just…we didn't know if it'd just hurt you more. We wanted to tell you so bad, make you realize you never have to worry about those bastards ever again, but…" Dean shook his head, shrugging helplessly. "We just couldn't."

Sam's mouth quivered, and his tight fists trembled at his sides. His voice shook. "Do you realize what you've done? You _murdered someone."_

Dean nodded vigorously, taking a step toward Sam. "Yes, to protect _you, Sammy. You don't have to deal with those bastards ever again. They can't hurt you anymore."_

"They're _always _hurting me, goddamn it," Sam cried out. "But that doesn't matter. You killed two humans. That doesn't just go away. It'll haunt you, and you'll realize you can never be rid of the very people you tried to destroy." Sam's voice shook harder. "As long as you're alive, they'll be right there, watching you." Sam paused. "The same way they watch me."

Tears formed in Dean's eyes as his voice trembled, his entire body quaking in pain. "Wh-What are do you mean?"

"I can't stop thinking about him…Larry. He's always there in my head, taunting me, torturing me. Fucking me." Sam shook his head, tears in his eyes. "And he won't go away."

Tears trailed endlessly down Dean's cheeks, the liquid blinding him and making everything hazy and blurred. He shook his head in denial, refusing to believe his brother could be so broken.

Before he could speak, Sam spoke up. "He'll never go away. He'll always be there. Every day I'll watch helplessly as a different scene plays out. I'm always a spectator to my own demise, and I can't stop it."

Dean sobbed into his hand as he watched helplessly during Sam's discussion. He wanted so bad to reach out to his baby brother, pull him into a crushing hug and wash away all his pain with a soft touch. But Sam was hurting, hurting from violating hands, nonconsensual in their pursuit as they endlessly defiled and degraded him. How would Sam react if Dean tried to touch him?

Dean stayed where he stood, trying his best to smother the sobs that kept erupting from deep in his chest. "Sammy…Sammy, it'll go away, I promise. With time you'll get better." _Time will mend what I cannot._

Sam shook his head, still locked in his own thoughts. "There's no stopping him."

Dean walked forward until he was standing in front of Sam, close enough that, if he reached, he could ruffle the kid's hair and pull him into a hug. "Sam, please, listen to me. This won't last forever. Sure, you can't forget, it was too traumatic for that. But it'll begin to recede; the harsh memories will fade, and they won't be so vivid. You're going to heal, Sammy, and I'm going to make sure of it."

Sam watched Dean with a nameless expression Dean couldn't remember ever seeing on Sam's soft face, his eyes wide and glazed. Sam's bottom lip began to tremble, and a small, unexpected sob spewed from Sam's mouth. His face crinkled with an emotion so big and so vast Dean couldn't do anything but stand there perplexed as Sam came to stand directly in front of him, no more than an inch apart. Not a moment later and Sam was wrapping his arms around Dean's neck and resting his head on his broad shoulder.

"Thank you," Sam whispered lightly in Dean's ear, and Dean seemed to wake up and reanimate himself in his body, throwing his arms around Sam's slim waist and pulling him closer to his chest. Dean sobbed into Sam's hair, one hand coming to pet the strands lovingly.

"You're welcome, Sammy. God, you're so damn welcome," he cried. Sam may be hurt, broken even, but that didn't mean Dean couldn't stitch him back together. He was there when little Sammy was first born, and he was there for him now, too.

_0o0o0o0o0o_

4 Days Later

Sam shifted uncomfortably on the small bed, quietly maneuvering to keep from awaking Dean and his father. He plopped his head back onto his hard, square pillow, shifting again to find comfort.

He lied there for over an hour, just sitting and staring at the darkness in front of him. There was nothing he could do to make himself fall asleep.

But he didn't really want to either.

There were too many ways his mind could hurt himself if he slept.

He sighed lightly, stopping short when he heard Dean shift beside him. He snorted, mumbling something under his breath. Had Sam woken him?

Dean's voice was getting more high-pitched, almost as though he were frightened or traumatized, and Sam turned over to face his brother. Dean's eyes were squeezed shut, and his body arched off the bed, his arms flailing at his sides.

Sam shook him, roughly pushing at the older man's shoulder. "Dean? Dean, wake up."

Dean snorted into his pillow, groaning at the increasing pressure on his shoulder. A moment later, and his eyes flew up, his torso lifting off the bed, his eyes looking around the room, wide-eyed.

"Wh-what?" he whispered, hoarse.

"You had a nightmare."

Dean blinked, turning around to see Sam sit up beside him, watching him with uncertain eyes. Dean tried for a smile, the lingering dreams of him slashing down with a bloody knife shadowing any genuine happiness he could've had. Thankfully, the darkness concealed the majority of his tremors, the sweat pouring down his face as the remnants of the nightmare remained remnants evermore. Sam was right. This was killing him.

Dean gulped as Sam meticulously watched Dean's facial expressions in the little light offered him. He absently wondered what Sam was seeing.

Sam sighed lightly. "It'll get better soon."

Dean nodded. "I know."

"It's hard to kill a person in cold blood without having any repercussions."

"I know." Dean sniffed, looking ahead of him, staring at the faint outline of a lamp. "But I don't regret my decision. The good of my actions infinitely outweigh the bad."

Sam remained silent, and Dean found him to be a reassuring presence. Larry and Hathorne's death were still heavy on his soul, but Sam was getting him through it, helping Dean just as much as Dean helps him, if not more. Dean shut his eyes, putting his forefinger and thumb on the corners of his nose. His brother had been through so much. Dean shouldn't be complaining at all. He wasn't the one repeatedly violated for months with no family to come save him; it should be _Dean _doing the comforting, not Sam.

Dean felt a warm hand on his shoulder, and he looked to see Sam looking back at him, a small smile lightening his features.

"Don't be so self-loathing. You've done nothing wrong."

Dean nodded before shaking his head. "I know, Sammy, I know, but…" He put his head in his hands. "You've been through so much, and here I am having the damn nightmare."

Sam said nothing for a moment, the hand still on Dean's shoulder. "Maybe months of abuse makes a person a bit more immune to things like nightmares." Sam received no reaction from Dean, and he sighed. "

_0o0o0o0o_

2 Months Later

"I…I think I'm ready."

Dean looked up from his magazine, his inquisitive green eyes landing on Sam's nervous, almost ashamed look, his stance stiff and rigid, as if expecting a blow.

Dean's mind was immediately on alert, watching Sam's every movement and facial expression. "Ready for what, Sammy?"

Sam shuffled restlessly from one foot to another, looking everywhere but at Dean. "I'm ready to…um…t-talk about…him." He paused, making himself say it. "Larry."

Dean's eyes went bug-eyed, and he immediately scooted over in his spot on the less-than-average loveseat as he threw the magazine aimlessly across the room, patting a hand on the vacant and newly available seat.

Sam sat down hesitantly, curling one leg beneath his body as he sat beside his brother. There was a thin sheen of sweat dripping down the back of his neck, and he wiped at it distractedly. This conversation had gone through his head so many thousands of times, but for the life of him he couldn't remember one scenario on how he wanted to begin. How lame was he?

"At first, I had thought he was just being overly curious," Sam said, deciding the beginning was as good a start as any. "He was looking at one of my books, and h-he, he was really interested in the idea that the protagonist got…raped." Sam swallowed, keeping his gaze on the wall. "After I had had enough, I packed up my stuff, planning to hitchhike my way to you and Dad, see what was going on." Sam shrugged. "But Larry was standing right outside my door, didn't let me leave. I r-ran, ran as fast as I fucking could, but…" Sam stopped, rubbing his palm against his watery eye. "He shot me in the leg. I don't know how I couldn't see the damn gun before. He must have had it the entire time. How could I not have seen it?"

Dean shook his head, tears rolling down his cheeks. "I don't know, Sammy."

"The first day," Sam said continued as if he hadn't heard him, shaking his head in lingering horror. "Oh god, it was probably the worst." He sniffled. "I woke up tied to the bed, I had no idea where I was. I didn't…I didn't even know what was going to happen to me. I didn't know he'd…" Sam caught his breath, breathing deeply. "He…he fucked me…a lot." He sniffed, wondering if Dean would leave him when he was done. "I, I didn't want it, I really didn't, I swear."

Dean spoke, brokenhearted, "I believe you."

"And it lasted so _long._ I don't remember a time before that I ever felt so much…pain. It was excruciating. I…I remember hoping, begging for death to find me, to rescue me from that torture." Sam continued staring blankly, lost in a nightmare he couldn't escape from. "It didn't, of course. I didn't deserve a reprieve, after all. All the pain afflicted upon me was pain well-deserved."

Dean shook his head. "No, Sammy, that's not true."

"I remember actually fucking him, too, sticking my dick in his ass. I think that was his favorite part." Sam shook his head. "And I remember getting _aroused." _He looked at Dean, self-hatred and loathing evident in his eyes. "How disgusting must I be?"

Dean cried silently. "You're not disgusting Sammy, I _swear _you're not. Larry took advantage of you, and your body reacted the only way it could. It wasn't your fault, Sammy, you couldn't have done anything to prevent it."

"And he'd whisper things in my ear. All the time. Sordid, degrading things that did nothing but linger inside of me, festering in such a magnificent degree I could do nothing but sit and listen. He'd tell me how sexy I looked all spread out for him, tell me what he was planning to do to me. And he did it, all of it." Sam wiped a hand across his nose absently. He snorted. "At least the bastard was honest."

Dean gulped. "Sammy…"

Sam stopped having that eerie stare, seeming to have finally noticed Dean and his surroundings. He turned to Dean, smiling lightly, sadly. "I know it sounds bad, like I'll never get over this, but…" Sam shrugged, his smile widening a little. "I'll be okay someday. I promise."

Dean smiled, and he felt it crack as a sob rushed through him. He threw an arm over Sam's shoulder and gently pressed him to lie against his chest, the other hand lightly petting the kid's hair. Sam allowed it, resting his head peacefully against Dean as the older man whispered soft reassurances. He knew Sam would get better. After all, he wasn't just a Winchester, he was fighter. Sam's been to hell, has stayed alive this long, and now has to keep on living a little more. It's not fair, and it's not right, but Sam is going to keep on living through the agonizing shame of his past.

But, this time, he won't be doing it alone.

**_0o0o0o00o0o_**

**Well, there it is. What do you think? Sequel?**

**Hope it was satisfactory to everyone. Until next time.**


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